


The Infinite Obituary Of Wilson P. Higgsbury

by HideousBlob



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2017-11-21
Packaged: 2018-03-19 09:15:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 48
Words: 139,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3604665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HideousBlob/pseuds/HideousBlob
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of oneshots, some in the same continuity, some not. Current oneshot: Wilson is... not... useless?...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Mysterious Photograph; or, Memories Of A Life Never Lived!

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this collection over a long period of time, as practice, with an emphasis on quantity over quality. Most of it is garbage. (Nearly all of it, actually.)

It's a good thing she's not a librarian and is only working here for a few days, because this room is crying out for a fire the way a canvas cries out for paint. Willow has worked hard on her self-control and she considers herself to be somewhat of a master at it, but this room full of old papers, old, dry, flammable papers, is a bit much. Just one spark just one. It would all go up so easily, it would all be so beautiful...

She locks her hands together. The librarian adjusts her glasses. She knows Willow's reputation and obviously loves this library. The act of faith is tremendous. Willow wants to be worthy.

"You remember what to do?" Wickerbottom says.

"Alphabetize!"

"Correct. Do you have any questions?"

She gives Willow a serious look, giving her a last chance to admit she can't control herself and bail, probably.

"No questions, ma'am!" She snaps a three-fingered Girl Scout salute.

Wickerbottom nods with one sharp jerk. She will trust Willow. Willow will be trustworthy.

"I'll check on you shortly. I'll be at the reference desk."

"Yes, ma'am!"

And Willow is alone.

Alphabetize. Sounds easy, but the piles contain photographs, newspaper clippings... things in jars... Willow is not sure how to name all of these, or whether they should even be here. She sets them aside for now, she will ask Wickerbottom about them later.

The work is boring. She wants something  _interesting._ She's glad she left her lighter with Wickerbottom so there's no temptation.

She reaches for the next piece of paper.

Her throat closes as soon as she touches it, before she's even seen what's printed on it. Her hands tremble and her back prickles.

It's just a boring article about some students from a nearby college. They're all lined up, a bunch of men looking deadly earnest in formal getup.

One student, standing in the front row, his eyes are crossed out with a black marker, there's a set of tally marks over his head.

His small frown

and the mess of hair that won't fit under his hat

Wickerbottom is here to check on her.

Willow's voice quivers, which it almost never does. "Who is this man?"

Wickerbottom peers through her glasses. Her mouth makes a firm line.

"Willow," she says, "I think it would be best if you burned this picture."


	2. This New World Has Consumed Us, Taking Us Quite Away From Any Other Force That Would Lay Claim To Our Bodies, Including Disease

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Wilson starts avoiding the group Wendy must uncover the secret of his unpleasant past.

_Note: This one contains Willow/Wilson... it wasn't meant to... but it got in there anyway. it's mild but it's in there._

* * *

Wendy neatly arranges her skirt around her legs as she sits down by the remnants of last night's campfire.

Wilson is sitting on the other side of it, weaving a trap. His back is braced against a heat stone.

Wendy waits. Wilson glances at her out of the corner of his eye, sees that she does not plan to leave, and scoots away from her in a manner he no doubt thinks is discreet.

So the others are right.

Wendy weighs this in her mind. If she says something, she may cause more strife, but Wilson doesn't seem particularly quick-tempered or prone to grudges. Besides, she has a sense that there are reasons for his behavior. He's acting as though he's concealing something. That something should perhaps be brought to light.

"May I have a minute of your time?" she asks.

He looks up from his work. He says nothing, but looks receptive. That seems to be his way of saying she should speak.

"The others have some concerns," she says.

He looks confused.

"They find you slightly... standoffish," she says. "Literally. You've developed a habit of standing off away from us."

He gives her an innocent look.

"You're keeping your distance from me right now," she points out.

He flinches. "No, not at all."

"I saw you slide away from me," she says.

Wilson frowns and doesn't look her in the eye. She continues.

"And lately, you've been creeping off to your own solitary fire at night." Formerly, he was in the habit of sharing Willow's fire. Willow has a separate fire from the main camp because she likes to make her fire larger and hotter than anyone else prefers. Up until a few days ago Wilson usually would join her. Now he's off by himself, and Willow claims they didn't fight.

"I'm not offended," Wendy says. Heaven knows she's long past caring about such tiny social oddities. She's only asking because she sees an opportunity to make life easier for those who do care. Willow seemed slightly hurt when she brought up the matter this morning... "I was only wondering why you choose solitude in a place where it's dangerous to be alone."

Wilson seems to be considering his answer. She lets him think.

"I might be contagious," he says finally.

So she was correct to read some inner conflict into his awkward withdrawals. "I see."

Wilson lowers his head and taps his fingers together, scowling at some thought or memory.

She waits for him to decide whether or not to elaborate.

He chooses to speak. "I've had consumption."

Ah.

"So you keep your distance because you're afraid of giving it to us," she says.

He nods.

That would be a thing best avoided. A slow, tedious, retching death would not be Wendy's preferred manner of departure.

However, he used the past tense, and he doesn't seem ill now. He seems perpetually pale and tired, but to some extent everyone is out here. This place is draining.

"But you've recovered?" she says.

"Yes, I recovered, but it can come back," he says, looking down and picking up the threads of his trap, although he doesn't do anything with them, just scowls at them. He seems to have lost his place. "It doesn't really go away, you know."

"And why are you only deciding to sequester yourself now? Do you have symptoms?"

He pauses before replying. "Once every so often."

Alarming. "I don't hear a cough."

He scowls harder into the trap. "I wake up sweating at night."

"We've all been waking in a sweat as of late," she says. "This place induces nightmares." She can see them now, in fact, swirling at the corner of her vision, vanishing when viewed head-on. "If you weren't avoiding us, you would have seen it."

"Oh." He looks unconvinced.

"Is that all?"

"I'm chilled."

"It's cold. The sun has gone down. You did build a thermometer in camp," she reminds him, "and if you were in camp, you would be able to read it and see that it is in fact cold and that all of us have been sticking close to our fire or our thermal stones."

He hesitates. "I see."

"Perhaps you should be more forthcoming," she says. "I believe the others think you don't like them." She doesn't point out that he's also causing himself needless hypochondriac fretting; she thinks he understands that perfectly well.

Wilson makes a face. "I doubt they'd rather worry about consumption than about my opinions."

"If they know of your situation, they can decide for themselves whether or not to risk contact with you. As I understand it, you're not contagious anyway."

He fiddles with his trap in silence. She'll wait for him to decide whether or not he wants to answer.

She eases the precious flower out of her pocket. It is warm. Her sister is still distant, having recently had an encounter with some spiders and been induced to depart. She will hold the flower for a little while anyway.

After some time Wilson speaks again. "I put my lab in my attic at home," he says, "with an open window right over my table, for the fresh air. To help keep it from coming back."

"I see," she says. She doesn't know what purpose this anecdote serves.

He gestures at the space around them. "I think I've had enough fresh air now."

Ah. He was making a joke, of sorts.

"Fresh air is highly overrated," she says.

"Will you tell anyone?" He peers at her. "About me?"

"It's not my place to do so," she says.

"How would I tell them? Make an announcement? 'Gather round, everyone. I suppose you're wondering why I called you all here today. I'd like to tell you that I spent two years in a tuberculosis sanatorium, and if we share a tent you'll have that to look forward to when you get home.'"

Wendy is already quite sure that they're never going home, so if any of them do get tuberculosis they'll simply die spitting blood in the wilderness.

"No one is asking to share your tent," she says. "They simply would like to know that you don't hate them."

"I don't hate anyone. Except Maxwell." His eyes glaze over in thought. "Maybe I'll give him consumption."

Wendy doubts that one can intentionally infect another with tuberculosis, especially when one isn't symptomatic and the intended infectee is only dubiously in any way human, but she sees no need to reply.

Wilson leans forward, folding his arms and propping his elbows on his knees.

"You could speak to Wickerbottom," she says. "She may know more about whether there's a risk of contagion." She seems to know practically everything. More than is healthy for a person to know, in fact.

"Mm." He rocks himself back and forth.

She wonders, suddenly. "Do you have a family?" she asks.

"My parents are alive, but I haven't seen them in years."

"You don't live with any family?" She doesn't see a wedding ring.

"No, I live alone."

He lived alone and he has an obvious obsession with his work. She suspects that he has spent his recent life going from isolation in a sanatorium to isolation in his laboratory. No wonder his social skills are somewhat lacking.

So does he really think he may be contagious, or is he justifying a certain skittishness of other people, possibly without knowing it?

It's none of her business. She found a reason for his distancing, and it's nothing personal, and she can at least tell Willow that much.

She may as well go back to the main camp... but he looks as if he wants to say something.

She waits.

"I didn't finish graduate school," he says.

She tries to look sympathetic, although she finds she's not entirely interested.

"I went home for Christmas," he says, "I thought I had a cold and I slept on the train and when I got home I found out that some of my relatives had died of the Spanish flu. I was annoyed because I thought I would know they were gone already if I hadn't been asleep. But that's not really possible, is it?"

Wendy is not familiar with the discovery of a loved one's death in absentia. It would be startling, she supposes. Not nearly as startling as seeing an unexpected death happen before one's eyes, but startling.

Wilson continues his story. "I forgot about my cold until I went back to school, I was so busy with funerals. Then I thought I was merely overworked and then I coughed blood during an exam and they kicked me out." He looks highly irritated.

"How troublesome."

"I could have finished my test first."

"But you had dangerous germs and urgently required medical attention."

He hisses air through his nose. "I suppose."

He says nothing more. She strokes the petals of Abigail's flower. She needs more interesting conversation.

It seems that he's finished sharing. She gets to her feet.

"Are you going?" he asks, in a tone that she could only describe as 'wistful'.

"Yes," she says. "Not because I have any fear that you're contagious, simply because I have business back at the main camp."

He nods and picks up his half-made trap.

She hesitates. A thought has occurred to her. "This place seems alive to you, does it not?"

"That's unscientific."

"But does it really seem to you that you would be threatened with so much danger only to be allowed to perish from a disease that you contracted at home due to chance?"

He looks up.

"You may be torn apart by hounds tomorrow," she says, "but I doubt very much that you'll start to cough."

He tilts his head, considering this, as she walks away.

* * *

Wendy is eating some berries when Wilson sits down next to her without warning, rather suddenly, heavily and awkwardly.

"Hello," she says.

"Hello."

On the other side of the fire, Wolfgang looks up. "Tiny man came back."

"I came back."

Wolfgang returns to the leg of rabbit he's gnawing on.

Wilson turns to the left, clearing his throat. Wickerbottom is sitting there.

She raises an eyebrow. "Greetings."

"Greetings," he says.

Wendy wonders if he realizes he's repeating what others are saying to him, and with the utmost sincerity. Such is a classic technique for inducing others to feel kindly towards one. Highly ingratiating behavior, like a dog coming in with its tail tucked.

She'd like to ask Abigail's opinion, but she can't.

"What do you know about consumption?" Wilson says, just like that, just out of nowhere.

Wickerbottom does not react with the slightest degree of surprise. Perhaps she is accustomed to being asked for information on all and sundry with no warning. "Please disambiguate. Consumption can refer to the act of consuming food, a disease, the burning of fuel by a machine-"

"The, ah, the illness."

"Ah." She sits up straight. "I assume you refer to the pulmonary form of tuberculosis infection. A chronic disease of the lungs, transmittable from person to person. Unpleasant and often fatal. Generally treated with rest cures and stays in sanatoria, which perform the additional function of quarantine. Treatment occasionally involves surgical collapse of the lung. Recurrence of symptoms after apparent recovery is not uncommon."

She doesn't ask why Wilson wants to know.

He grimaces and rubs the palms of his hands together. "Is it contagious when there aren't any symptoms?"

"Not at all."

"Not even a little?"

She gives him an odd look. "No."

"Ah." Wilson stares into the fire. He starts heating some berries from his backpack, hunkering down and not looking at anyone.

Everyone is looking at him. 'Everyone' in this case meaning Wolfgang, Woodie, WX-78 and Wickerbottom. Willow is off at her own much larger fire. Webber sleeps next to a spider colony. Wigfrid is off somewhere, she must be hunting again.

Wendy has finished eating. She cradles the flower in her hands. Abigail is getting closer, but not quickly enough for her tastes. Someday. Someday they'll never be apart again...

"Me uncle died of consumption," Woodie says. "Pretty nasty, eh?"

"Sick is no good," Wolfgang says. "Talk other things."

Wilson is hugging himself and rocking back and forth again, like he was that afternoon. Wendy belatedly realizes that that's not normal behavior for a grown man. He must be stressed.

"He never quit smoking his pipe, eh," Woodie said. "Uncle Stump. He'd be blowin' blood out of the end of it and everything. He put beaver grease on his chest and said that was good enough. Called us all hosers when we told him to see a doc. He was a good lumberjack, he was."

WX-78 makes an unpleasant mechanical sound. "ILLNESS IS SUCH TYPICAL HUMAN INEFFICIENCY."

Wendy can see Willow and her fire about twenty feet away. Willow is humming snatches of something, loudly, but barely audible over the crackling flames. She's throwing pinecones into the fire pit in time with the music. She looks like she's having an evening that, while not a barrel of laughs, perhaps, is not actively unpleasant. Maybe she has the right idea being alone over there.

Wilson is watching her too. He stands up. "Wickerbottom, you're sure it's not catching?"

"Not if you are currently asymptomatic," Wickerbottom says.

"Even if I were in close contact with someone?"

"Yes."

"Very close contact?"

Wickerbottom peers at him.

"I AM CONFUSED," WX-78 says. "ARE ALL OF YOU HORRIBLE HUMANS DYING FROM THE WHITE PLAGUE? WHAT A SILLY THING TO DO."

"Tiny man likes fire girl," Wolfgang explains.

Wickerbottom clears her throat. "The transmission of tuberculosis usually requires prolonged sharing of the same air. One generally gets it from a member of one's household who has an active infection. It isn't transmitted by single acts of intimate contact." She gives Wilson a meaningful look. "If you are displaying no symptoms, Willow is perfectly safe. We are all in the open air, to boot."

"I did not mention Willow and I didn't say I've had consumption," Wilson says. He stands up and walks off towards Willow's fire.

Everyone turns to watch.

They have a perfectly good view of Wilson standing there with his hands clasped behind his back with an air of penitence. Willow looks up, rosy-cheeked and wreathed in flowers. She is happy and vibrant. Not bad, if one is into that sort of thing... liveliness and all that. Wendy can take or leave it.

Wilson starts to speak. Willow gives him a garland. He puts it on.

He tries again to speak, but Willow is handing him something else now... ah, she's made pumpkin cookies. A lot of them. That explains the singing and interrupting and her quick movements. Sugar.

Wilson eats three cookies in quick succession, which may or may not be a good choice for someone trying to maintain the ability to ward off a latent infection, but he can make his own decisions.

He starts to talk. Wendy can't hear him over the now-roaring fire, and his face is turned away, but she can see his hands moving in an aimless, fiddly manner.

Willow becomes somber. She watches Wilson's face intently as he speaks.

When he finishes, she pulls him close and kisses his cheek. Then the other cheek.

"Not bad, eh," Woodie says.

Willow pats him on the shoulder with an air of finality, steps back, and points to her large fire, apparently changing the subject to one she prefers.

Wendy looks down at her flower.

"I DO NOT UNDERSTAND WHY HUMAN FEMALES ARE ATTRACTED TO DISPLAYS OF WEAKNESS," says WX-78.

Wickerbottom sniffs. "Willow is not attracted to disease. She is showing him that she is not repulsed by the inactive bacteria in his lungs."

Staring at the flower won't bring Abigail back any sooner. Wendy looks up.

Wilson is writing something on a piece of papyrus with a sharpened hunk of charcoal. Willow is watching.

Wilson finishes writing. He carefully drops the piece of paper into the fire. He steps back.

Willow nods. Wilson puts his arm around her.

Whatever he wrote on that paper has been consumed by the fire.

"WHAT ARE THEY DOING," WX-78 asks, or rather says in a flat mechanical tone.

"Interesting," Wickerbottom says. Her glasses glint in the light of their own fire. "Willow seems to be in the habit of writing down things that upset her and burning them as a symbolic release. She's invited someone she cares about to share her coping mechanism."

"HA," chants WX. "BURNING PAPER WILL NOT REMOVE A TUBERCULOUS LESION."

"It's not intended to," says Wickerbottom. "It's an emotional release. She is inviting him to let go of his worries."

"BUT THE LESION IS STILL THERE."

"It may cause no further problems and he doesn't need to concern himself with it unless he becomes symptomatic."

"BUT IT IS STILL THERE AND FULL OF GERMS."

Wolfgang speaks up. "I do not understand weird doctor talk."

Wickerbottom leans back and adjusts her glasses, crossing her legs. " _M. tuberculosis_ creates lesions in the lungs. When the immune response is successful, these lesions crust over and contain the bacteria. However, it is possible for the bacteria to live within this granuloma, and escape when the immune system is compromised to form a new infection."

Wolfgang stares at her.

"The bad parts of Wilson's lungs dried up but are still there and can make him sick again," Wendy offers. She hesitates. "Possibly. Our bodies seem different here."

Wickerbottom peers at her. "How so?"

"I am capable of things I never was," Wendy says.

Woodie leans back and scratches his beard. "I do feel different, eh."

There's an odd silence.

Wilson and Willow are sitting by their- her- fire. Hip to hip. Her head is on his shoulder. So this is why he was concerned about 'close contact'.

It occurs to Wendy that she would not be willing to do that. Of course, she is not so interested in Wilson that she would have any desire to put her head on his shoulder, regardless of his health status.

"What will happen to us when we return, I wonder?" Wickerbottom muses. "Some of the things that are happening here are... not sustainable."

They're not going back.

Wendy's not going back, anyway.

She clutches the flower to her chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I am not a doctor type person. Facts presented here about TB are as accurate as I can make them, but I'm only human, eheh.
> 
> Also, everything here is meant to be accurate for 1920-something, not today. Nowadays there are antibiotics, which are a whole different story...


	3. Nightmare Throne; or, Maxwell Reflects On The Foibles Of His Plaything

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I beat adventure mode and wrote a very long rambly Maxwell-monologue full of... SPOILERS and ANGST
> 
> I don't think this is one of the stronger pieces, but I included it when I posted this to fanfictionnet so I'll include it here too. I like Maxwell. More of him can't hurt, I guess.

Wilson is learning.

Somewhat.

Oh, does he ever catch on slowly. It's been great fun, watching him fumble, setting off little sparks in the sky and pretending he can command lightning, sending tiny rabbitty-squirrelly creatures across your trail. You crush every one of them with a shovel, knowing he sees. Then you grind the corpses into the ground with your heel. He sees that too.

You believe he'll get there, eventually. Not to where you were. Obviously not. Not him.

You have never liked Wilson.

You did not like Wilson when he was in his natural habitat, alone in a drafty house, making up theories and such, hiding himself from the world, hiding himself because he was lonely and unwanted and unlike you, who went out and made something of yourself like a man when you were his age, he hid, and lied to himself, lied lied lied, and read sad books sometimes so he could cry alone in his empty house without guilt and without acknowledging that no one was ever coming and nothing was working. (You know this because you read his mind, of course. You could read minds then. Or you were in touch with Those who could do it for you. Same difference.)

You did not like Wilson when he came to the islands. You did not like him when he did not see the beautifully cruel trick you had played on him (Wilson said he wanted knowledge. Wilson was alone and said that was what he wanted. You gave Wilson his knowledge and you took him to a place with no other living humans and then you watched him go out of his head with the isolation and talk to skeletons and rabbits and trees and things and it was quite funny and he never got the joke, blast him).

You did not like Wilson when he was pale and soft and untested, when he was unmarked, when he tried to convince himself this was not his fault, when he pretended things were normal, when he failed, when he bled, when he curled up by his dying campfire and sobbed into the grass, when he rocked in place for hours because the shadows were moving.

You liked Wilson even less when he grew wiry and bitter and sarcastic as your world filed him down to a sharp wedge and there was nothing left but his selfish heart and his cruel mind, and the ways he found to rationalize and justify the things he did to your creatures out of curiosity! You could write his weaseling thoughts into a book, a manual on lying.

You did not like Wilson when he built things, when he did exactly as They told him, when he pretended it was all his idea, when he destroyed your creations and tore out their hearts and made his own toys with them. Not that you had any real attachment to the things he destroyed... he was just so smug.

You liked Wilson least of all when he cursed the darkness. When he spat things into the shadows. When he railed at your Charlie, the only thing left in this horrible place that would be worth saving. That was when you sent hounds.

Make no mistake, you have enjoyed Wilson. You have enjoyed him very much. You have enjoyed his sputtering, his screams, his pain, his blood, his fear and all the ridiculous ways the pain and fear have come out of him in bad jokes, broken laughter, flat denial. You have enjoyed the times when the sun shone and the monsters seemed far away and you found an insecure smile on Wilson's face, because then you could think of a new way to get rid of that smile. Because you don't like him.

You do not like Wilson one bit.

And you've been happy to sit here and dwell for a few minutes, even though you're busy, on all of the millions of things you dislike about him, because this is a special occasion, you see.

Wilson has found your mind.

He fidgets at the edge of your mind. He doesn't know how to dive in there yet, or maybe he doesn't want to. He will eventually. There's nothing you can do to stop him, and nothing you particularly want to hide anyway.

Right now, he can only see what you're currently thinking. If he's like you- and, to some extent, you're fairly certain he is- thoughts about him stick out like his name in lights. He can't ignore them if he wants to.

You play some of your favorite memories for him. You recall seeing him doubled up with hunger pangs, talking himself into eating one of the poisonous mushrooms you left him, and then of course the disgusting aftermath.

You recall the hounds, leaping on Wilson, tearing his flesh, afterwards, him frantically applying honey bandages in the rain, brushing away flies from his festering wounds.

You recall him throwing handfuls of grass on a dying fire, calling your name, sobbing it, begging you to relent, claiming repentance of several sins he had committed that you did not care about.

He considers the memories as if you have handed him some foreign object.

You show him a memory that would occasionally torment him during quiet moments- he was in school and he had to demonstrate something on the board and he got it completely wrong. He was embarrassed. He was thirteen, but the memory still hasn't gone away. You politely remind him of it. Yes, you saw his memories. You saw his dreams, too. Some of them were disgusting.

He doesn't care.

Ah.

You have so much less power now, but he is already here and so you can reach for him, as you have so often. With your experience, you think you can see more of his mind than he can see of yours at the moment.

This is different than before. You and he are equally human now. (And equally not human.)

He is not all that he was. A being of pure curiosity, or close to it. The last of his fears are subsiding now that he has found new things to discover.

Curiosity, and no sympathy. And what poor excuse he had for a conscience? Snuffed right out.

You remind him of the graves he dug up.

He no longer thinks he should feel bad about it. He's quite content in regards to those graves, actually.

You dislike Wilson more than ever.

You didn't think that was possible. You're impressed. You send him a mental image of yourself raising your glass to him. In reality there is of course no glass and nothing to put in it.

This is a fact that Wilson knows very well.

He points out that he has seen no evidence that you, Maxwell, possess any sort of conscience. He does not find it entirely fair that you are judging him based on his morals.

He may be right. You don't care. You don't have to be fair.

You thoroughly despise Wilson P. Higgsbury.

That is why you brought him here.

That is why you let him trade his life for yours.


	4. Monster Meat; or, Wilson Performs Some Poorly-Thought-Out Self-Experimentation While Willow Can Only Observe And Disapprove

She threw her arm up in front of her face and it hit claws.

The thing standing where Constance the nice pig should have been roared. Before Willow could un-freeze a tug on her arm pulled her out of claw's reach.

She ran, pulled along by Wilson until she recovered herself, outpaced him and began to pull him along behind her. His torch went out. She pulled out her lighter. By dawn, her legs were sore and he had become a stumbling dead weight, they had come to an open space, she let go, they collapsed in the grass.

"Where did Constance go?" she gasped.

Wilson was heaving for breath, eyes glassy, clutching a stitch in his side. Oh dear, after a little run like that? He was going to have some trouble out here. He had made it as far as he needed to go, at least, and he had not once complained or told her he needed to stop.

When he was able to form words: "The blue meat changes them."

"But she was a nice pig!"

"Not anymore."

Willow stared up into the pale morning sky. It looked like rain. She hated rain.

Wilson was looking down at her. He took off his backpack and pulled out a wad of something.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"You're hurt!"

She realized her arm was bleeding, badly enough that it shouldn't be left to its own devices. "Yikes. Thanks."

He nodded and carefully wrapped her wound with strips of honey-coated papyrus. Gross and sticky, but they usually seemed to work.

Afterwards, he stepped away and she got to her feet.

"Where are we?" she wondered aloud.

He studied their surroundings- open grassland ringed sparsely with trees. "I don't know, but maybe we should stay away from that pig village."

"It was that nasty blue meat?"

He nodded. "I saw a group kill some spiders, eat the meat and transform. I was coming to warn you but it was too late."

"Sheesh!" She put her hands on her hips. "That blue meat's even too gross for pigs!" She sighed. "We might as well look around here."

There were meadows nearby with berry bushes for the picking. Rain began to fall, but it was light and short-lived. There was no sign of spiders, bones, skeletons, or anything that didn't belong in the woods.

Willow trusted normal surroundings least of all.

Around noon she made a fire. Maybe they didn't really need one right that minute but she was hungry, she wanted to cook her berries, and she really wanted a fire. There would be plenty of materials left for that night's fire anyway, and there were more nearby to gather.

Wilson sat down across from her, on the other side of the fire. His eyes were darting, making him look like a little kid that had stolen something. He was holding blue meat.

"Ee-yuck!" Willow proclaimed. "I don't even want to look at that stuff!"

Wilson held up a hand. "Those transformed pigs were nearly invincible, weren't they?"

Willow's eyebrows rose. He couldn't be...

He continued in a defensive tone as he began to pick hairs off the meat. "What if it can make us stronger?"

"Wilson, that stuff is nasty! Don't eat it. Have some nice berries."

He eyed the berries, but shook his head. "I have to try it! What if this meat can bestow powers?" He raised it in front of his face and peered at it.

Powers, huh? "What if it just makes you sick?"

"Then I'll stop the experiment."

He began to heat the meat. It smelled like lamp oil.

Willow shook her head and ate her berries. "Didn't those pigs go crazy, too?"

"They're beast-men, Willow. You and I have control of ourselves."

"Speak for yourself! I'm not eating that stuff."

She checked her food supplies. Berries, carrots, and one half-starved bunny. Their cooking pot was back on the other side of the pig village, at least a day's walk away. "Should we wait for tomorrow to head back? I don't think we can make it before dark."

"Are we going back?" he said.

She stretched. "I don't know, are we? Or are we just going to jump into the ocean and hope we float somewhere good?"

He blinked at her.

"What else are we going to do?" she asked him.

"There has to be some way out of here."

Willow laced her fingers together and studied them. "Yeah. Yeah, we can't let that mean old man coop us up here forever. That wouldn't be fair at all."

Wilson nodded and began to chew on his blue meat. He pulled a face.

"No one's making you eat that," she said.

"This is for science." He took another bite and flinched.

"Sure."

He became quiet. She nibbled her berries.

Had she heard something?

Willow became very still. She sifted through the surrounding noises. The crackles of her fire. Wilson's chewing noises. A distant bird...

The dry, light noise of an ax blade on wood.

Willow slowly got to her feet. Her heart thumped in her ears.

Wilson looked up at her, tilting his head. She put her finger to her lips.

She headed in the direction of the sound. Trees became thicker around her as she moved.

Through the trees, she saw her. A human being. An elderly woman, wreathed in flowers, chopping a tree.

She was wrinkled and there was a little bit of fuzz under her nose and on her jutting chin. Coarse gray hair was trying to escape from her too-tight bun.

She was the most beautiful woman Willow had ever seen.

"Hey!" She waved.

The woman turned on her heel, raising her ax. She saw Willow, looked at Willow's face, and lowered the ax. "Greetings!" She drew closer. "How delightful to encounter you! I had begun to think I was the only living person on this island, although I have seen the remains of others. What is your name?"

"I'm Willow!"

"Please call me Wickerbottom." She offered a hand, and Willow shook it. It was dry and warm and old.

Willow was so happy to see a new person that she didn't even giggle at her silly name. Not even a little bit. Not even on the inside.

Wickerbottom eyed Willow's messy hair and torn skirt. "I don't suppose you have a town here to reside in."

"Nope! Just wandering around lost, like you."

"In that instance, I suppose..." Wickerbottom trailed off and peered over her glasses at something behind Willow.

Willow looked over her shoulder. Wilson had wandered over to see what was going on... scruffy, beardy Wilson with smears of blue guck by his mouth and dried grass wrapped around his torso as a sort of useless makeshift armor.

"This is my friend," Willow explained.

* * *

Wickerbottom was a librarian and a writer. She had been on the island for about three days and had set up a nice camp. She was happy to have visitors.

"You have a science machine!" Wilson said, as soon as he saw it.

"Indeed," Wickerbottom said.

"You have a fire pit!" Willow said.

"Indeed." Wickerbottom folded her hands together. "One needs a sense of normalcy. Please, make yourselves at home."

Willow threw a few pine cones into the fire pit. Wilson started messing with the machine.

"How long have you been out here?" Wickerbottom asked.

Wilson was usually slow to speak up when someone asked him a question so Willow answered first. "I got dropped here two weeks ago. Three days later, I found Wilson." She wondered if Wickerbottom would ask what Willow had been doing or where she was from before she'd gotten to the island. Wilson had never asked that, bless his distracted, self-centered heart.

"I see," Wickerbottom said. "And from whence did you come before?"

Oh no, Willow shouldn't have answered first. She didn't know what to say...

Just then, Wilson butted in as if he hadn't even noticed Willow was talking. She breathed an inner sigh of relief. Thank goodness for clueless men.

"I am a gentleman scientist," he announced. "I was working near Boston."

"Ah," Wickerbottom said. "I thought I detected a hint of the New World in your manner of speaking."

"You're not a Brit?" Willow had never asked where Wilson was from.

"No, although I went to school there," he said, finally leaving the science machine alone and coming over to the group. "My father was English."

"A man of science, you say," Wickerbottom mused. "Which field of study?"

Wilson hunched his shoulders. "Er, generally... several sciences."

"Was there a specific project you were working on before your disappearance? I have always enjoyed discussions of the acquisition of knowledge."

Was it just Willow's imagination or were the tops of his ears getting pink? "Nothing a layperson would understand," he said.

Wickerbottom peered at him. "Young man, I'm hardly a layperson. I've been following all of the relevant journals since their inception."

"Which field of study?" he countered.

"All of them."

"Ah." It wasn't Willow's imagination- Wilson was becoming decidedly uncomfortable.

So Willow pretended a very silly thing. She pretended she had slipped and burned her finger. "Owie!"

Both of them turned and stared at her.

"Wow, gosh! I am sooo clumsy!" Willow chirped. She put her 'burned' finger in her mouth so she wouldn't laugh.

Wilson turned away, not asking if she was okay. "What were we talking about? Oh! I came here about a month ago."

"My dear, do you need to treat that?" Wickerbottom asked.

"Nah! It's fine," Willow said.

Wickerbottom nodded and looked at Wilson. "Forgive me if I'm being impertinent, but I believe I can see how a makeshift razor could be constructed." She eyed his beard. "You seem to be having difficulty not tripping on it."

"I could be persuaded to shave this," said Wilson, whose beard had nearly caught fire several times in the past week. Willow had not been involved. Unlike Wilson, she knew how to handle a fire.

* * *

They helped Wickerbottom gather supplies until nightfall.

"I have some more healthful fare available," Wickerbottom pointed out as Wilson took out a chunk of blue meat.

Willow rolled her eyes. "He's doing an experiment."

"Ah! So you're the sort to use himself as a test subject," Wickerbottom said.

Wilson wiped his left hand on his pants. "I'm always cautious."

Willow had never seen him without a beard before. He was really pale, like cheese curds, and his chin was really pointy. And his mouth was very expressive... and usually pouting. He reminded her a lot of a younger kid she used to look after back home, a long time ago... he was small, and bigger kids used to pick on him, and the grown-ups usually didn't see. So then Willow would kick butts, and get caught, and get punished.

"It seems like there's not much food left around here," Wilson said.

"That is correct," Wickerbottom said. "Unfortunately, a chance lightning strike cleared out the berry bushes I was relying on. I was planning to venture forth."

"We were going to explore too, weren't we, Wilson?" Willow said. "There's gotta be a way out of here. Maybe we can find that mean old Maxwell."

"And hurt him," said Wilson, who had finished his gross meat and looked a little green.

* * *

The next day they set out.

Wilson was quiet. He was often quiet, but this was a different, surlier silence. The little dummy had probably made himself sick and didn't want to admit it. She gave him his space.

On the third day of the meat experiment, she touched his arm and he flinched away, hissing at her.

"No more blue meat," she said.

He scowled and blinked at her. He began rubbing the backs of his arms. "I..."

"No more blue meat," she repeated.

He sighed. "All right. I don't think it's working."

She'd tried to warn him.

* * *

They camped at the edge of a stinky muddy area at dusk, deciding to explore it in full sunlight.

"Come on," Willow said, holding out some berries. "You have to eat something that's not gross."

Wilson shook his head. He was sitting all bunched up. "I'm not hungry."

Wickerbottom turned her head. "Do you hear something?"

Willow looked out over the expanse of nasty wet mud. Something was running around out there. "It's one of those fish guys," she said. They weren't friendly.

Wickerbottom cupped her hand around her ear. "I hear a human voice. He sounds alarmed."

Willlow got to her feet. "Well, I guess we'd better go look then!"

A big man in a unitard was running around in the mud. "Help! Young girl needs help!" he cried.

A little girl was lying on her back in the mud, staring up into the sky. A red flower was placed over her hands, folded neatly on her chest. She looked still and calm.

Willow's jaw dropped. Wickerbottom stepped closer. "Hello! We may be able to provide some assistance."

The man turned. "Peoples! I am happy!" He pointed to the girl. "Save young girl!"

"I don't see a thing wrong with her," Wilson muttered.

"I am imprisoned," the girl said tonelessly.

"Giant bad thing is keeping her trapped," the man said. "See!"

He approached her, and a giant purple  _thing_ snapped up out of the dirt and began whipping at the air above the girl's head.

"I fear if I move I may be flattened," the girl said.

The thing vanished back underneath the earth. Willow recovered herself and said: "He can't reach the ground! Try crawling away."

"Unfortunately," she said, "it can indeed reach the ground once one is far enough away from the root. My leg is injured, and I cannot crawl fast enough to escape the lashing spikes."

"Oh dear," Wickerbottom said. "And so young."

"It is here that death will find me at last," the girl said.

"You're not gonna die," Willow dismissed. She turned to the others."How much rope do we have?"

Wilson checked his backpack. "Enough." He took the rope out and started tying ends together.

Willow explained, since the large man looked confused: "We'll throw her the rope and then pull her out fast before those nasty spikes can get her."

"I will do pulling," the strange man said. "I am mighty!"

Wilson tossed him one end of the rope.

"Let me," Willow said, taking the other end. She ran up to the little girl.

"Willow, wait!"

Too late! She dropped the end of the rope by the little girl and turned, dodging the tentacle, slipping, falling face first in the mud, feeling something lash the back of her legs. Oops.

"Oh no no no," she heard. She crawled forward and got to her feet, now out of harm's reach.

"I'm fine," she said. "Yech! I hate mud."

The big man pulled on the rope and the little girl shot forward into safety. Wickerbottom helped her to her feet.

Back on dry ground, they discovered that the big man's name was Wolfgang. He was a circus strongman. The child was named Wendy, and she had a sister named Abigail who was currently indisposed but would be returning soon. Wendy would not say where she would be coming from.

Willow hoped Abigail hadn't run afoul of any tentacles.

Both of the newcomers were injured, and Wilson and Wickerbottom got busy mixing salves, heating water and generally bustling around.

Night was coming on fast. This fire was not nearly big enough. Wickerbottom was a wonderful woman but she was too picky about fire size and ever since Willow had pretended to burn herself the old lady had been overprotective to boot. No one was paying attention to her... she hadn't had a real fire in days...

Willow slipped away.

Now THIS was a fire! Giant, hot, banishing the shadows and soothing the nerves. Why didn't anyone appreciate a good fire?

Willow dried herself by the fire. Once it was completely dry, the mud caked on her limbs grew powdery and could be brushed away.

Her legs had been gashed up pretty bad and Wilson had all the healing stuff.

He was busy by the other fire (the weenie fire) at the moment, wrapping up Wolfgang's arms. He looked kind of frantic. She'd ask him for help later.

She had an unsatisfying meal of berries and chewy old bunny and lay on her side to watch her fire. No one seemed to be missing her. She might elect not to stick by their dumb tiny fires at night anymore. She didn't see why she should be deprived just because other people didn't know how to deal with a real big fire without hurting themselves or getting it on their supplies.

She was just starting to doze off when she heard footsteps. She looked up.

Wilson tossed his straw roll down on the ground. He caught sight of Willow. He stood there and tapped his fingertips together, hanging back a little bit.

"Yes?" she asked.

"Do you mind?" he asked.

"Mind what?"

"If I'm here?"

"Oh!" The straw roll. She blinked. "You want to sleep over here?"

"Do you mind?" he repeated.

"Not at all!" Wilson was not overly fond of big fires... "But wouldn't you rather be over there with them?"

He shook his head.

Willow felt warm, and not from the fire. "You can hang out with me whenever you want," she said.

"If you're sure you don't mind."

"I don't mind!"

He shook out his straw roll and laid it down a safe distance from the fire. He looked up. "Willow! Your legs!"

"Oh, yeah," she said.

He bustled over. "Stay where you are." He started applying stingy stuff to the backs of her calves. She dug her fingers into the weave of her straw roll and stayed quiet.

"There," he said. "Try not to move them."

"Okay, Dr. Wilson."

"I'm not a doctor," he mumbled, lying down on the other side of the fire.

He was frowning. "How are you doing?" she asked.

"I'm all right."

"You sure?"

"Yes." He seemed mollified. Maybe he'd just been feeling ignored for some reason. "Thanks for asking."

"Good night," she said.

"Good night, Willow."

* * *

Willow had woken up, but it wasn't light out yet.

The cool air on her arms told her what had happened. Her lovely fire had gotten too low for comfort. She took up some pinecones and some grass clippings too small to use, along with the tattered remains of Wilson's cruddy grass armor that he didn't want to wear anymore for some more substantial fuel, and she nursed her flame back to roaring health.

In the renewed light she could see Wilson curled up on the other side of the fire with his back to her. He was trembling. Poor guy. The freshly stoked fire should warm him back up.

She lay back down.

Wilson made a quiet but distinct noise of unhappiness.

Was he awake? Should she say something?

The fire was nice and hot now but he was still shivering, and his breathing was fitful. She was just going to lie here and imagine horrible ways he could be dying unless she found out what was wrong. She called his name.

"Yes?" he mumbled.

"What's the matter?"

"Uh-" He hesitated, filling the silence with drawn, painful breaths.

"What is it?" she prodded. "Don't say 'nothing', I know you're not feeling good."

"Well-"

"That blue meat made you sick, didn't it?"

"It may have."

She sighed. "I told you not to eat that stuff. Do you need help?"

"No. I just need to sleep it off." He did sound miserably tired.

"All right. I'm right here."

"Okay."

She lay awake in the darkness. It was hard to sleep knowing that her friend was lying there suffering, even if it was his own stupid fault.

"Are you awake?" she whispered, when too much time had passed.

"I can't sleep. My stomach hurts."

"Sheesh! I told you-"

"I know!" He sighed. "It could have worked..."

"Are you going to be okay?"

"Yes." He sounded dubious.

She stared up into the sky. It was starless.

Wilson could not suppress a few muffled pain sounds. She rolled over to face him but he was still lying with his back to her. Her legs scraped against the straw mat as she moved and she winced.

"We have to stay here a few days and rest anyway," she said. Wendy's legs had been torn up worse than hers...

"Right. How are your legs?"

"Not bad. That stuff you made really works. Maybe you should eat some of it?"

"I ran out." He rolled onto his back, staring up at the sky.

Willow hadn't learned much about poison in the Girl Scouts. Just poison ivy. "At least there's no poison ivy out here!"

"Huh. Yeah."

"You would probably rub it all over your face if there was," she joked.

He gnawed his lip. "What does poison ivy look like?"

"Leaves of three, let it be."

"Got it." He fell silent.

"So..." She cast about for something to distract him from his misery and to distract herself from the smarting in her legs he'd inadvertently reminded her of. She could ask about him. He probably liked to talk about himself... or maybe not... he hadn't seemed happy when Wickerbottom had started asking innocent questions about his work.

She sure wasn't going to talk about herself.

She flopped onto her back. Well, here was something to talk about... "Why are there no stars?"

"Clouds?" he guessed.

"But I can see the moon."

"Hm."

How much did she actually know about Wilson? She'd been spending every second with him for weeks, but they'd always spent that time talking about how not to die, or sharing a companionable silence. "You're... from Boston?"

"Near there. I guess you're... from..." he mumbled.

"I'm an American gal."

"Ah."

She had to come up with something else to ask about. "How did you figure out that salve?"

"I just thought of it," he said, with quiet satisfaction.

Weird ideas had been occurring to Willow too and she wasn't always sure they came from her... but Wilson liked thinking he was smart, so she wouldn't say anything.

"My work wasn't going well before I came here," he said suddenly. "I didn't have a thing to tell Wickerbottom when she asked me about my projects..."

Unsure how to respond, she made a sympathetic noise. It was the reaction he seemed to expect.

"But now... I can't even describe it!"

"Lots of ideas?"

"So many... they just  _come_ to me... I don't even have time to construct everything I could be constructing."

He reflected on this quietly for a moment.

"May I ask a question?" he said.

"Sure!" If she didn't like the question, she'd lie or evade.

"How did you get here?"

She considered this. "Maxwell," she answered.

"I hate that man."

"We're gonna find him and get him good," she said.

He fell silent.

He had let her hide things from him as she liked. He hadn't even pried.

"Did you want to know anything else?" she asked.

"You don't seem to want to talk."

"No?"

"Not really."

Well, what could she say? It was true.

He'd told her something sort of personal. Maybe she could think of something to tell him... she felt kind of bad, now that he'd noticed she didn't want to tell him stuff.

"Maxwell told me," she said, "that there was a place where  _everyone_  needed fire."

"Did he? I'm going to kill him." He said it without venom, but Willow had a funny feeling he wasn't just saying it.

"Did Maxwell tell you something?" she asked.

"Yes." He did not say what. "Did you build a door here?"

"I did."

"You built it yourself?"

"Yeah. I'm good at making stuff," she said. Better than him, probably, but why split hairs?

He nodded.

She began to pick at nearby blades of grass to give her hands something to do. She didn't like prolonged inactivity. "I don't like Maxwell," she said. "And there's a lot of terrible stuff here! But it's sort of nice, sometimes... to be somewhere with not a lot of people getting mad about stupid stuff... you know?"

"Mmhmm," Wilson mumbled.

She thought back to earlier that day. When she had started telling people what to do to help Wendy, everyone had listened, even though all of them were older than her. Even the men. Even though they didn't know her that well.

And so far no one had yelled at her for starting a fire, even when she made them really big. "It's like a really... difficult vacation," she said.

"Mm."

His voice was strained. She glanced over at him. "Oh dear, you don't look well."

"It comes and goes."

"I hope it goes soon."

"Mm."

Willow reached out and took his hand, without the slightest thought of what was appropriate or awkward. His skin was clammy. Kinda gross, but she didn't let go.

She heaved a sigh and stared up into the sky. "I do wish there were stars! Darkness is boring!"

"Willow."

"Yeah?"

"Your arm is in the fire," he said.

Wilson was lying on the other side of the fire and, without thinking, she had put her arm through it to take his hand.

"I knew it," he said. "You're impervious to flame!"

"Fire is my friend," she said. "My friend wouldn't hurt me!" She squeezed his hand.

"That's incredible!"

"You're not going to experiment on me, are you?"

"I don't know! Am I?"

"Nope, you're not!"

"Okay."

Pale dawn light was filtering through the sky. Whew. Finally. Willow had never liked darkness, and here... there was something truly unpalatable about it.

She heard a bird singing. She smelled pine trees and fresh grass and her wonderful big fire. As light diffused it and hid the lack of stars the sky became high, open, and free...

And for the first time in a very long time, someone was holding her hand.

"Willow, uh-" Wilson's fingers unlaced from her own and he rolled over and up onto his hands and knees. She averted her eyes as he started to retch.

 _Well, nothing's perfect,_  she told herself.


	5. In The Name Of Science; or, This one is of rather poor quality and based around an unsound concept

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I was just thinking about how Wilson has no character perk besides 'beard and no bad stats' and I was thinking, what if he has an ability but it's stupid and doesn't affect the game whatsoever and you never see it, and then I wrote this stupid thing.

 

The sun would burn him to a crisp later if he wasn't careful, but in the early morning it was pleasantly warm on his face and hands.

A thing to turn the dirt with, that would be helpful. Then he wouldn't get so much dirt on his hands and wedged uncomfortably under his fingernails. He'd never done much gardening before, his parents had hired people for that. Now he wished he'd paid more attention to the tools they used...

Someone cleared their throat behind him. He looked over his shoulder.

"Pardon me, but would you perhaps like some assistance?" Wickerbottom asked. She pulled out a book.

"Oh, thanks," he said, standing back. She ruffled the pages and a carrot appeared where Wilson had just set down a seed.

"Much more efficient," she said.

"Definitely." That was self-evident, although for some reason Wilson couldn't help thinking about how he wouldn't get to see the little seed sprout and grow...

Well, that was maybe just a tad oversentimental. He picked the carrot. There weren't any seeds left in his pockets, he'd have to find more.

Wickerbottom was looking at him. Ugh, he was covered in dirt. He started to brush it away.

"Forgive me if this is impertinent," she said, "but... I have noticed something odd, and as a man of science, I'm certain you've noticed it as well."

She paused. He waited.

"I have a certain ability to... alter reality," she said.

Mmhmm.

"Willow is entirely impervious to fire. Not only herself, but her clothing."

Yes. Wilson had noticed.

"Wendy enjoys the ability to recall the spirit of her dear departed sister from her intended rest."

Wilson had definitely noticed that.

"Wolfgang's strength exceeds that of the strongman and verges on the superhuman."

Wilson had noticed that too- none of this was exactly new.

"I could go on." Wickerbottom looked him up and down, noticing the dirt, maybe? Wilson didn't really know where this was going. "But, er..."

But what?"

"You, sir..."

The dirt?

"Your abilities seem entirely human."

"I am a human," he said.

"Has it not seemed odd to you that you are the only one here who cannot do anything... inexplicable?" she asked.

"Not at all!" Wilson was a scientist, and he refused to do anything that didn't have a scientific explanation...

His fingers went to the item around his neck, almost of their own accord. Of course, some things were still waiting for an explanation... but he was sure he'd find one.

Wickerbottom cleared her throat politely.

"Yes?" he said.

"Do forgive me if I am being impolite," she said. "But. I would like to propose, well, a bit of an experiment."

"An experiment?" Wilson was definitely listening.

"Isn't it possible, young man, that you have some kind of ability that has not yet been discovered?"

Wilson wasn't sure he liked the sound of that, but he had no proof that it was impossible. "What are you suggesting?"

* * *

His field notes had accumulated into quite a stack. Wickerbottom picked them up and leafed through them. "Er. Have you ever considered writing something with a bit more pep?"

"I'm recording the surroundings," he said.

"Your prose is a bit... erm... never mind." She handed him some papyrus, manure and seeds. "Concentrate on these items deeply."

The manure smelled bad.

"Do you see anything?"

"See?" Wilson saw that he could plant the seed back at camp and fertilize it with the manure. If Wickerbottom would let him.

"Visualize words on the page," Wickerbottom said.

The page was blank. Nothing was written on it. It just kinda sat there in Wilson's hands, telling him nothing.

He could visualize it as a paper airplane.

"That is absolutely not what I meant," Wickerbottom said, as the airplane fell limply at her feet.

"I thought it might be my power," Wilson said. This was a lie.

"It doesn't seem that you're taking to books. And physical strength is not quite your area..."

"I know I'm not fireproof!"

"Perhaps we'll speak to someone else."

* * *

The bunny was a soft, warm weight in his lap. What were the precise sensations it gave off that made it feel so alive? Was it slight, shifting movements, or was his skin detecting a faint bioelectrical field on a level too low for him to consciously register?

He smoothed back its little ears. It was staring and frozen with fear.

"The beast is captured," Wigfrid said. "Now send it to Valhalla!"

Wilson sighed. He placed the rabbit on the ground. He seized it firmly by the tail, and with the other hand took its horns and pulled sharply forward and down.

_Crnch._

"Farewell, wee beastie," Wigfrid said. She peered at Wilson. "Do you feel your enemy's strength coursing into your veins?"

"I feel like having a rabbit sandwich."

Wigfrid shrugged. "Even a foe as small as this has strength to lend. You would know if something had happened."

Wickerbottom shook her head. "Thank you, Wigfrid. Please, take this rabbit for your trouble."

Wilson handed it over, with some reluctance. He hadn't been joking about that sandwich. Too bad there was no bread.

"I doubted, but I needed proof. Very well, Wilson. You've shown no ability to communicate with spiders, and no particular affinity for lumber, so I doubt Webber or Woodie need to come into this matter."

"I'm not a robot, either." Did that mean they were done?

"I suppose that leaves only one..."

* * *

"Absolutely not," Wendy said, picking apart flowers under the curious gaze of her sister. "Firstly, as you can see, Abigail is with us today, so it would be impossible to attempt to retrieve her. For another thing, I am not a scientist, but your methods strike me as ineffective."

"How so?" Wickerbottom asked.

"Not a single one of us has the same ability as another," she said, "so it would seem to me that attempting to provoke this man into duplicating any of us is doomed to failure."

Wilson could have thought of that if he had any interest in this project.

Wickerbottom considered him. "A very logical suggestion! What else do you suggest, child?"

"I cannot speak for all, but I have always been well aware of my sense of Abigail's presence. Wolfgang is well aware of his own strength. Willow has never had any illusions that her flesh burns. If Wilson senses no power within himself I see no reason not to believe him."

"It was an interesting experiment anyway," said Wilson, who considered the day thoroughly wasted.

Wickerbottom was still looking him up and down. "But it seems so implausible that only one of us should be entirely unremarkable."

"I am a heck of a scient-"

"No." Her voice was apologetic. "That's not it, dear."

He folded his arms over his chest.

"I still believe it possible he has not yet triggered his ability. Wigfrid could not know that she took strength from her kills before she felled a foe," Wickerbottom argued. "And that she could not do before she came here."

"And she did it very quickly, without being told to," Wendy pointed out. "It is in her nature to fight. How long did it take you to make a book? You were drawn to do it as soon as possible, were you not? And I can be parted from my sister only by a force greater than death."

Abigail gave each of them a bright stare. Wilson didn't think there was anyone in the world that had such a bond with him as that.

"What comes most naturally to you, young man?" Wickerbottom asked.

Wilson tucked his hands into his pockets. There were some berries in there. He promptly ate them, while Wickerbottom continued to wait for an answer.

"Scientific inquiry," he said.

"He grows a copious amount of beard," Wendy said.

Wickerbottom shook her head. "That is hardly an unnatural ability for an adult human male."

"And yet no one else here seems quite capable of it."

Wilson had a few more berries in the other pocket. He ate those too and wished Wigfrid had not taken his rabbit meat.

"Hmm. Well, I'll continue to observe," Wickerbottom said. "Thank you for your cooperation, Dr. Higgsbury."

Ah, had it slipped his mind yet again to tell her he didn't have an actual doctorate? Well... he'd correct her later... it would just be awkward to do it now...

"No problem," he said, hastily, and remembered that he had told Wendy he hadn't finished graduate school, and she was sitting right there.

She didn't say anything. Good girl.

* * *

And that was the end of it, until the next day, when Wilson was looking over a cliff and something nudged his back.

One bright light later, he found himself at the bottom, taking off the spent remains of his red amulet.

Wickerbottom was peering over the cliff at him. "Oh, dear. Well, I suppose you can't fly."

"What the heck?" he said patiently.

"I do apologize, I was hoping that..." She had the decency to blush. "I had supposed that an ability might manifest itself if you were endangered."

"I have been endangered a lot. Nothing happened. You could have asked."

"I did not expect you to fall quite off the edge. I meant only to startle you." While he was looking over the edge. "I had thought that once startled, you might display some sort of re-equilibrizing... well... I am sorry. I didn't mean to cause you to lose an amulet."

He had an extra in his pocket anyway. He slipped it around his neck. "Help me get back up there," he said. She produced a rope.

At the top, he said: "I don't have powers. Please don't do that again."

"I shan't."

"Thanks."

"I don't suppose you would be up for a little bit of... testing?"

He frowned. He'd just said he had no powers.

She clasped her hands together. "I and the twins have rigged up a few little things. I'm just so curious! I had believed that we may have been collected here because of some sort of... innate quality we share, but if you don't possess it... then... I must know. Certainly you also want to know?"

Wilson couldn't deny that any hidden powers he might have would be handy to know about, and she seemed unlikely to let it drop if she was willing to go so far as to push him off a cliff.

"All right..." He just hoped it would be over soon.

* * *

"Abigail thinks this will be amusing, please don't disappoint," Wendy said. She sat behind a low shelf of rock, three small wooden cups upended in front of her.

"I didn't expect spectators," Wilson said. WX-78 and Wolfgang were sitting nearby, watching expectantly.

"Ignore them," Wickerbottom said. "They seem to have nothing more useful to do with themselves."

Abigail whispered something. "Right," Wendy said. She showed Wilson a small seed. She hid it under one of the cups and began to shuffle them.

Wilson picked a cup. It was the wrong one.

"KICK THE HUMAN UNTIL HE IS POWERFUL OR DEAD," WX-78 suggested.

"Absolutely not," said Wilson. "If you try to kill me again I'll leave."

"There will be no kicking," Wickerbottom said. "Shh!"

Wendy stared into Wilson's eyes. "I am thinking of a number."

"Young lady," Wilson said, "I'm offended."

"Offended is not number," Wolfgang said.

"Shh!"

"Your strengths are not physical," Wendy said. "If you have them. What number am I thinking of?"

"I'm not a mind reader. Stop."

"What am I about to do?" she asked.

What, did she think he was clairvoyant now, or was this another mind reading test?

"Something annoying," he guessed.

Abigail whispered.

"Entirely pointless," Wendy agreed.

"Ah, well," Wickerbottom interjected. "Come over here."

Wolfgang and WX-78's eyes followed his every step as he approached Wickerbottom, who was holding... a spear.

"Hold out your arms," she said.

"I don't like where this is going."

"I will be very careful."

He held out his arms. She smacked them with the spear handle.

"That's where I thought this was going." He rubbed his arms. "That hurt! What did you think would happen?"

"I barely tapped you," she said.

"But it hurt!"

WX-78 laughed tonelessly. Wolfgang shook his head.

"I don't believe you possess defensive capabilities," Wickerbottom said. "Oh- come now. I thought you were a scientist."

"I am a scientist. I don't do science by hitting people!"

"What about this?" She pointed to something behind her.

"It's a beehive," Wilson observed.

"And do you feel inclined to do anything with, to, or about these bees?" Wickerbottom asked him.

"No. They might sting me."

"STOP BEING STUPID AND COMMAND THE BEES," WX-78 said.

"No! I do not have bee powers. I don't have any powers!" He bit his tongue before he could say he wasn't a freak. There was no need to alienate the others. But- he wasn't. Wilson was a normal person, a normal person with no magical gobbledygook, no bulging muscles, no dead sisters, no weirdness. That was just fine.

He heard Willow's voice. "Hey, everyone, what are you-"

"DESTROY!"

Wilson turned around. WX-78 had Willow in a headlock. He ran over and started tugging on the robot's arms. "Get off of her!"

"MAKE ME," WX said.

Wolfgang sighed. He stepped over and pried everyone away from each other in the blink of an eye, picking Wilson and WX-78 up with one hand each and setting them back down without displaying any visible effort. He really was strong.

"Stupid tin can!" Willow kicked the robot's shin. "What was that for?"

"DISAPPOINTING," WX-78 chanted, taking no notice of the kick. "ATTACKING HIS FRIEND DID NOT MAKE HIM USE HIS POWER."

Wilson's face burned and his hands bunched into fists. "You attacked an innocent woman to- to try and make me do magic tricks?"

"What are you jerks even doing?" Willow adjusted her pigtails, which had been mussed up by the aggressive robot.

"We are finding tiny man's hidden power," Wolfgang said.

"What?" Willow stared at Wilson.

"This is all ridiculous," he said.

"Yeah it is. Just show them the thing so they can leave!"

"Thank-" His nose scrunched up. "Oh, no!" He rubbed his temples. "Not you too."

"Wilson," she said, looking at him in disbelief, "just show them the thing!"

"What are you  _talking_ about?" Everyone around him was going crazy. They'd want to eat him next. "There is no thing!"

"The thing with the words! Wickerbottom has books. Do the thing!"

Wilson wanted to scream. It was a shame he was too polite to do it. "What  _thing?"_

Wickerbottom drew closer. "What do you mean, Willow? I have attempted to coax him to write a decent book, but he seems capable of nothing but field notes."

"It's a readey thing, not a writey thing," Willow said. "Give him a book. But not a magic one. I don't know if that would work."

"Nonmagical books are rather hard to come by, but I happen to have a few." She handed Wilson a light volume.

Conscious of a million eyes on him, the damp hair on the back of his neck and the sun filtering through the trees and his own apparent lack of any ability to control his own life, Wilson took the book from her and read it.

Obviously nothing unusual had happened. "Is that all?" he said. He had plans back at camp. At the moment, they involved having a cold snack and writing some scathing private notes about his insane friends, but those were still valid plans.

"Did you ever read that book before?" Willow said.

"No, of course not." Who would read a book twice? Especially one like this? It was a story about a girl growing up. Cute, but pointless. Wickerbottom must have been planning to give it to Wendy.

"What was the last line in it?"

Wilson hesitated.

"Go on," Willow prompted.

"I don't want to spoil the ending." Maybe Wendy would want to read it. Also, the point to all this. There was no point. This was pointless.

Willow rolled her eyes. "Then just pick something from inside the book and tell it to us!"

"Ah-" Wilson closed his eyes and thought about what he'd read. "Um... what do you want me to pick?" Why was he doing this?

"Anything!"

Everyone was still staring at him. He picked something at random.

"And that is just why you should be sorry for me,' said Anne, 'because the thought that it  _is_ all my own fault is what makes it so hard. If I could blame it on anybody I would feel so much better."

"Okay," Willow said. "What page is it on?"

"What page?"

"Can you do that? What page?"

He'd never tried, but... "239?"

Wickerbottom opened the book and leafed around in it.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Here it is. Page 239." Wickerbottom snapped the book shut and stared at him.

"THAT IS A BORING POWER," WX-78 said, and it began to wander away.

"Young man-" Wickerbottom sounded strained. "Do you even understand what you've just done?"

"I don't think he does," Willow mused. "It took me a long time to figure out other people can't play with fire."

Maybe Wilson was the one going crazy. "What don't I understand?"

Wickerbottom tapped the cover of the book. "You did not open this book."

"Of course not."

"You read it without opening it."

"Right." And? You didn't need to open a book to read it, the same way you didn't need to see the inner workings of a machine to make it run. The words were in there to make the book go, not to be peered at, unless you were simply interested in that kind of thing...

"Here." Wickerbottom forced another book into his hands.

"Less Miserablez?" he said.

" _Les Miserables,_  if you please. Read it."

"I can't. It's in French."

She ripped it out of his hands and gave him another one. In English.

He read it and handed it back. "How whimsical," he said.

"Are you familiar with it?"

"Before now? No, I don't generally read children's books."

"Quote from it."

Wilson sighed. "Er... uh... 'Ah, it's the Silent One,' remarked Dr. Pipt, without looking up, 'and he wants to know what I'm making. Well, when it is quite finished this compound will be the wonderful Powder of Life, which no one knows how to make but myself. Whenever it is sprinkled on anything, that thing will at once come to life, no matter what it is.'"

Wickerbottom flipped through the book. "Indeed. Here it is." She snapped the book shut.

"An ability has made itself known. I suppose I must now eat my words," Wendy said.

Abigail whispered.

"True," Wendy said. "But it still counts."

"Books..." Wolfgang shrugged and left. Wendy and her sister followed.

"Do you not understand?" Wickerbottom was staring at him. Wilson backed up a little. "You can read an entire book in an instant! By touching it!"

Yes? "You... can't do that?" She was surrounded by books- surely she knew how to read?

"Higgsbury, I tell you I cannot! Here. Read this."

"This book is huge!" Where was she keeping all these? Where had she gotten them?

"It's Tolstoy. The greatest novelist to have lived, according to some."

"What about Joyce?" countered Willow.

Wickerbottom sniffed. "Feh."

Willow put her hands on her hips. "Feh? What's that supposed to mean?"

"There is no accounting for taste."

"Well, Tolstoy is boring and his books start good fires," Willow said.

It took Wilson a little longer to read this book- about as long as it would take to count to ten.

"And?" Wickerbottom looked downright fierce. "What do you think?"

"Uh..." Quite dry, honestly. "It's good."

Wickerbottom took the book from his hands, staring at the place where he had touched the cover. "Remarkable..."

"You can't do this?" Wilson said. "Really?"

"No, normal people have to open it and look at each page," Willow said. "And each word. Like how you write each word on its own when you're making notes."

"That sounds tedious!"

Wickerbottom's hands clasped each other by her heart. "Imagine all the works I could read if I could... simply... absorb them! Dear heavens! Do you retain what you read?"

"Yes..." Unless it was boring.

"Here! Read this!"

She dumped a dictionary into his hands. Wilson picked up a few new words. Useful.

"This ability must be of immense help to a scientist," she said.

"Er, yes," he said. Although he much preferred hands-on activity to reading papers.

"You must never acquire overdue fines- you must never even purchase books! You simply touch them in the store!"

"Right..."

"Heavens! And you thought you were normal!"

Then... Wilson was... not normal?

"Why didn't you notice other people had to look at things?" Willow said.

"I don't watch people read..."

"I read your notes, you didn't see me looking at the pages?"

He found an interesting flower on the ground and looked at it. "I thought you were making fun of me."

"Read this!" Another book appeared in his hands. An encyclopedia. It was heavy and full of information. That was... how many words in how many minutes? Wilson was starting to get things mixed up. Maybe he should stop reading this. He didn't have to read it just because he was touching it. Wickerbottom wouldn't know the difference.

Wickerbottom took the encyclopedia out of his hands and grabbed another book. "Try this!"

"No!" Willow burst in. "Don't give him the magic books. You could hurt him."

Wickerbottom looked taken aback. "I must!"

"For science," Wilson said. He took the magic book and dropped it at once. "Ow! I can't read that." His fingers tingled where he'd touched it.

"Ah..." Wickerbottom picked up the book and tucked it away. "That's a shame."

Wilson's surroundings looked... funny. He rubbed his temples.

"I told you," Willow muttered. She touched Wilson's arm.

"I don't think I have any more ordinary books," Wickerbottom lamented.

"That's fine," Wilson said. His head was starting to hurt. He hadn't done this much reading at once in a while- and that last one hadn't been a real book.

"But you seem to not even appreciate books," Wickerbottom said. "You're so lukewarm on Tolstoy."

"I appreciate information."

"Information!" Wickerbottom's eyes lit up. "Of course!"

* * *

And so they went on a little tour of the island.

"The runes? No, I can't read them."

"You seem incapable of understanding foreign languages," she said. "But with a textbook, couldn't you instantly learn them?"

"Possibly, I haven't tried it," he said, scuffing at the ground.

She looked at him with great disappointment.

"There's no book on these," he said, pointing at the runes.

"Why do you have to know the right language to read with magic?" Willow asked.

Now, that was jumping the gun a little. "It's not magic!"

"It isn't?"

"Absolutely not."

"Whatever you say."

* * *

And then-

"This? It's some kind of homing device." It looked familiar, too, but that was definitely a coincidence. Lots of things looked like radios.

"And did you learn that by touching it?" Wickerbottom asked.

Wilson looked over the rod he was holding. "No, it doesn't want to talk to me." That had seemed like a completely normal thing to say just a little while ago, but now... er... Wilson  _was_ normal, wasn't he?

"But if it were more cooperative..."

"I don't understand  _everything_  just by touching it," he said.

Wickerbottom raised an eyebrow. "Clearly not." Why 'clearly'? "It seems you aren't entirely compatible with magic..."

"I don't believe in magic."

Now they were both looking at him with such a patronizing air.

"I don't!" Wilson protested.

Willow scrunched her nose. "Why can't you read magic if you can read books with magic?"

"It's not magic!"

"Why don't you believe in magic if you can read books with magic?"

"It is  _not_ magic."

She rolled her eyes. "Right."

* * *

And then-

"I don't have the faintest idea how this touch stone works! If I did, I could build them..."

Wickerbottom and Willow watched him. Willow looked solemn, Wickerbottom looked thoughtful.

"Perhaps you could try," Wickerbottom said, "pretending for a moment that you do believe in magic."

Ergh. "Pretending?" How was he supposed to pretend to believe something?

"What if you only don't understand it because you're not entirely open to the magical side of its function?" Wickerbottom said.

"I don't-" Wilson scowled at the touch stone. He wanted to say that this was nonsense, there was nothing unusual about him- he was just a fast reader- and if he had a power for understanding things, well-

-It didn't work all that well.

Books were easy... touch one, and it gave you what you wanted to know... but anything else was harder.

And radios just lied.

"Oh, you're blushing," Willow said.

"I'm just a fast reader," Wilson insisted. "There's nothing unusual about it." His ears were burning. A memory, long-ignored or perhaps repressed, had just surfaced in his mind- he had been young, and he had been begging his toy train to talk louder, and his mother had heard and had come in and when she had explained that toy trains did not talk he had felt very stupid.

Wickerbottom's voice was gratingly gentle. "You seem resistant to the idea that you have an unusual ability. Perhaps if you were less resistant, you could do more with it."

Wilson jammed his hands into his pockets.

"You could try it," Willow said. "Unless you don't want to."

"It's not going to work."

"Not with that attitude."

Maybe he should try it. Then when it failed, they'd back off.

He knelt by the stone and placed both hands on it.

 _Magic is real,_  he told himself.  _So are little green men from space and the Easter bunny._

He felt the amulet under his shirt shift against his chest.

_No rational explanation. Just magic._

_If I'm hearing voices, it's magic, not insanity._

_I'm hearing voices._

_I really am hearing voices._

The touch stone spoke very quietly, in a language far more foreign than French.

"I can't," he said. He pulled his hands away- it was difficult to break contact, as if he was being held to the stone by a magnetic force. "Humans didn't make this..."

"I see..." Wickerbottom tapped her chin. "Perhaps you have a sensitivity to human endeavor? Maybe that's why you are so drawn to science."

Wilson stood up and dusted his hands off on his pants.

Willow scratched her ear. "So your power doesn't... do much, does it?"

So not only was Wilson  _not_ a normal human, not only was he just as freakish as everyone else on this island, but he was uselessly abnormal. Great.

He didn't see why anyone back home would ever have to know about this.

* * *

"He reads fast, you say?"

Nope, you should never eavesdrop on people who are talking about you. You hear terrible things that way.

But that jerk was right outside the tent, and even though Wilson was comfortably ensconced with a hot stone and a warm Chester and raggedy fur blanket and a large pile of his own beard, he hadn't slept at all and he didn't think he would be able to any time soon. Even though he was too tired to want to leave the tent.

"Yeah," Willow replied, voice slightly muffled through the tent fabric. "Want some berries?"

"N-"

"Too bad! They're my berries."

"What a delightful young woman you are."

Wilson had completely forgotten about the book thing. It had been a very long time since anyone had mentioned it and there weren't a lot of things to read out here.

Maybe that was why he couldn't sleep- he was turning into Wickerbottom as he got older. Nah, that was silly- he wasn't that much older. Was he? No... Willow hadn't visibly aged compared to how she'd looked before he'd... left. No one had, not even Wendy.

Of course, he had no evidence that they could age here.

"Is that why you kidnapped me?" Willow was saying.

"Punch him," Wilson mumbled too low to be overheard.

"Why, yes," the other voice rumbled. "Being kidnapped by me is a high compliment. With one exception. I never cared for Higgsbury." This was so unsurprising that Wilson barely registered that he had heard it. "It's not reading, you know. That's not his gimmick."

"Gee! I sure am interested in everything you have to say!"

The deep voice continued, ignoring her sarcasm. "He's a sponge. Of course, most of what he can soak things up from hadn't been invented yet when you came here. He'd get a kick out of television. Too bad he'll never see it."

Television... Wilson had known about that once... everything was slipping away so fast. Maxwell remembered. Why did Maxwell get to remember?

Maxwell had called him a sponge. That could refer to his ability- and such a weak, passive ability that even now Wilson hesitated to claim that he had any magic, he'd seen what true power was like- or it could mean that Wilson was something of a parasite, a hanger-on of the group. The double meaning was definitely intentional. They always were with Maxwell.

Maxwell was still talking.

"That's the only reason he's here, a piece of him was left in the radio." Of course. Careless. So careless, and he hadn't even known he was being careless... "I thought I may as well just snag him, if he was there for the taking. I didn't expect much."

Wilson sat up with his back against the thermal stone and let Chester climb into his lap. He wasn't getting any sleep for a while. He might as well accept it.

To think, he'd once considered himself a freak because he could absorb information more easily than some others could. He'd understood so little then.

"I've never understood why They give powers to people who can't use them," Maxwell mused. "Unless They just wanted him to be lusting after things he couldn't have."

They...

Wilson folded his hands over his heart. There was a missing space there. It didn't hurt, exactly, and it didn't gnaw at him like the empty space in his stomach- it was just not there, just missing.

Chester licked the back of his hand. Wilson started scratching behind his horns.

Whatever was missing, no one had noticed the change. Maybe it wasn't a very important piece. It was definitely missing, though. Maybe he would have done better here from the start if he hadn't convinced himself that finding truth meant silencing intuition, ignoring the voices in his head, and not believing that a piece of his heart could be gone even if it was physically all there. Something was still gone. It wouldn't come back.

"This place was so boring with him in charge," Maxwell sniffed.

That was because Wilson had better things to do than torture a pack of half-starved innocents for kicks. (Well, mostly innocents.)

"I wonder if you'll get a turn," Maxwell was saying. "Fire raining from the skies would be interesting."

Wilson dug his fingers into Chester's fur. "Don't do it."

He heard rustling from outside. "Wilson?" Willow. She sounded concerned.

"It's not worth it," he said. "Nothing is worth it."


	6. Hounds; or, Maxwell Discovers An Unpleasant Effect Of Stranding Adults Of Both Sexes In A Small Space And Giving Them Very Little To Do

a/n: This has Maxlie in it and also some... heavily implied Willowson (but it's entirely off-screen)

* * *

Wilson is haring across the fields in your general direction, speeding along as if fired out of a cannon.

He wouldn't come into your territory by choice, so there must be... ah, yes. Here they come. The hounds snapping at his heels.

Wilson looks as awkward and clumsy as ever but he's a great deal faster now than he was when you brought him here. He's pulling ahead.

There's something held to his chest. It must be the loot he was getting too close to the nests for.

He has just enough distance now between him and the beasts to stop and hide his prize in a space under a fallen log. He is still for a moment, the right amount of time for you to notice some slight premature graying in his temples. That wasn't there the last time you saw him, oh... three seasons ago? Maybe more? You've more or less lost interest in the man.

It is interesting to see that he hasn't stopped aging, however. You were not sure your puppets could age here.

He's doubling back now, recapturing the dogs' soon-wandering attention and leading them in another direction. He wouldn't need to do that if he was hiding something the hounds couldn't destroy or would have no interest in. He must have left food, or a captured animal. Unlikely to be anything you want, but since he and his pursuers are gone now you may as well take a look.

You stroll up to the little hollow and peer inside. Two eyes blink back at you.

What is it? This isn't any kind of animal you recognize. You didn't put this here...

It begins to sink in slowly what you're seeing.

Oh, no. No, no no.

You note a slight sinking in your heart. You thought you were past all that. Funny what shock will bring out of a guy.

You didn't want this. You never expected this.

Maybe you should have. You brought them all here, after all. It just never occurred to you...

Regardless of what you wanted, or whether or not you should have foreseen this and taken steps to prevent it, the thing Wilson hid in the hollow under the tree still exists.

It blinks at you, unperturbed, and sucks on a knotted rag that someone gave it as a pacifier. It is a tiny human. A very tiny human. With an excessive amount of wayward black hair- fine, short, soft and new- fluffing out of its scalp.

Its large, round, lamplike eyes- and its skin a shade or two darker than 'cadaver-white'- were certainly not inherited from its father. There are two women of breeding age on this island and one of them is an insane actress who probably devours her mates, so even without the faint resemblance you'd have a pretty good guess at the mother.

You never actively disliked children more than you disliked any average person, but you certainly never had any cause to learn what they are like or what they do. This one strikes you as... human, but not quite fully-formed.

What are they thinking? They can't possibly shelter this creature to adulthood. Yes, Wendy is still alive so far as you know, but she's at least twelve- older than that by now- and she has a powerful protector. This child is barely old enough to sit up, and it's reliant on Wilson. And presumably its mother. Who is feisty enough, but nowhere to be seen at the present time.

Well. It's lasted this long. You may not know a great deal about children, but you do know that it has to be at least a few weeks old if it can sit up.

It seems to have no fear of strangers. But why should it be afraid of strangers? It's been raised within a tight-knit group in a place where you are the only stranger. They may have told it about you, but it's too young to recognize you and put you together in its mind with the warnings. It may be too young to understand speech. You've never tried to talk to a baby.

It's holding its little hands out to you. Perhaps it's used to being hidden somewhere and later reclaimed by someone else. Yes, it must be. That must often be the only way to keep it alive.

You have no idea how to pick up a baby. It looks easy to injure.

How peculiar! You've lasted through shadow manipulation, mental torture and magical alterations with only a few moments of doubt, but the sight of a helpless infant throws you into confusion. This creature is the most harmless and innocent thing here.

Which is why you don't know how to respond. Everything else in your world is some degree of vile. You planned it that way. But you didn't plan this. This is just a baby. A completely normal baby. Not a fire-setting wench like its (probable) mother, not a self-absorbed wretch like its father. A baby that has never killed, lied, defamed...

It doesn't belong in this place.

It makes soft noises of distress, still waiting to be picked up.

"Poor child," you mutter. Your booming, melodious voice was made for oratory and theatrical proclamations, with a side of scorn and derision. A statement of sympathy sounds rather insincere coming from you. It doesn't sit right.

You are recalling now that you have in fact held a child before, but it was so long ago...

"Look who came to visit us! My baby niece! Isn't she a beaut?"

Charlie was positively radiant. The babe in her arms sucked its fingers and watched you with alarm. You were a tall, shadowy figure with a sharp face, not particularly endearing to young ones, a fact you knew well- it was part of your act.

She offered you the baby anyway.

"Oh, er, I don't know-"

"It's easy, just hold her lil head... There."

The baby was warm and very light. It fussed and squirmed, but did not scream.

Charlie looked into your eyes. You had a certain feeling she was, er, appraising you. She wanted to know how you were with children. You blushed, because there was much more humanity in you then.

Now, you recall what you did then. One hand supports the body, one hand supports the head. You can do this.

There, that wasn't so hard. The child is in your arms now, but it doesn't seem satisfied. It makes noises and grubs at your chest. Yech, it's trying to chew on you! With its fleshy rows of no teeth! Why is it doing that? It's going to mess up your suit.

It's a good thing no one is here to see this. This is ridiculous. You don't know how to stop the baby from slurping on your buttons without hurting or dropping it so now you're just standing here, letting it slime you. This whelp is already determined to be as obnoxious as its parents.

"What do you want?" you grumble to it, though you're quite sure it's too young to understand you. "If you need a changing, you're out of luck."

You hear a noise behind you then. The sound of a mortal fear almost too deep to be felt. Similar to a sound you've heard countless times before, but more intense. This is a sound made by someone who has something to lose. You know what you'll see before you turn around.

Wilson seems to have dispatched the hounds only with difficulty. The role of his left leg is being played by a red mess supported by a walking cane. He stares into your eyes as if he is looking down a gun barrel.

He reacts more quickly than he used to. Why, by the time he's got his spear out, you would have had time to kill only one of them. If you were inclined to try. You're not.

You could explain, but there's no need to bother. He'll be satisfied by only one thing and you're perfectly happy to give it to him.

You offer the baby. He takes it from you.

Well, this is a surprise. Wilson seems to be entirely comfortable with handling a baby, even when he's struggling to stand. That may be the only skill he possesses that you do not. Of course, you don't need it.

Isn't dealing with the baby supposed to be a woman's job? That's what you've always heard, anyway. You suppose you wouldn't be too surprised if none of the women you brought here care to be bothered with it.

Wilson cradles the infant with tenderness and a keen interest in an object besides himself, neither of which you've ever seen or suspected in him before now. He looks the child over, verifies that it hasn't been harmed, and glares at you.

You hold up your hands, palms out in a gesture of nonaggression. You don't intend any sarcasm, but derision is so ingrained into you that you believe you're displaying some anyway.

Wilson says nothing. He just glares at you.

He's hardly intimidating at the best of times and the tiny, uncoordinated hands patting at his face aren't helping his image, but now is not the time to laugh at him. You keep your face solemn.

Wilson is wearing some kind of strappy thing on his chest. It seems that he has a makeshift sling for the infant, to carry it hands-free. He won't have to try to get himself back to camp without the use of his cane, then.

He packs up the baby for transport, keeping a malevolent gaze fixed upon you as much as he can without ignoring his pup. His attempts to devote equal time to sending hate to you and caring for the child make him look even more ridiculous, but you still think it unwise to laugh.

He is quite deft at gently convincing tiny limbs to go into the holes in the sling, which is where they least want to go. Really, he seems good at this. He makes a better father than a chemist, anyway, though that's not saying much.

The baby is safely strapped in now. Still without saying a word, Wilson turns and hobbles away.

If circumstances were only slightly different, you would do something. He shouldn't be walking on that leg. You may or may not be able to support his weight- he's not a large man, but your strengths are not physical- but you could carry his supplies, help him bind up the leg a little more properly-  _something._

But you know that even if you offered him help, he would not take it. So you don't do something. You don't do anything. You just watch.

Something is lying on the ground- it's the rag the child was sucking on. It's been dropped.

You tuck it into your pocket, even though it is slimy and disgusting. Maybe if you see them again you'll return it.

You hope you don't see them again.

* * *

disclaimer: I know pretty much nothing about babies.

advice: Do not let Maxwell hold your child.


	7. Hypovolemic Shock; or, Emotions Run Absurdly High

a/n: welp, I have to write the over-the-top cheesy angsty 'one of them totally dies in the nightmare world!' willowson fic eventually so I'll just get it out of the way now. I knocked this out in about three hours. Move along, please.

By the way, all this stuff really is in the Girl Scout Handbook from 1920. I believe Willow would have gotten her badges sometime before it was published but she probably would have heard similar things, or similar enough to be admissible in a cheesy amateur fanfiction about cartoon characters from a video game.

Uhh... tw: injuries? Nothing is described in detail.

* * *

**It is Imperative That We Address the Unpleasant Fact That One or Both of Us Will Surely Perish Before We Can Escape From This Place**

"Don't worry! You'll be fine. It's okay. It's all right." She takes his good hand and presses it between both of her own. It's cold- but he's always cold. His hands are always cold and clammy and gross. It doesn't mean anything, he could be fine.

Wilson was scared before but he seems better now. He's looking at his arm. He seems interested in it, like he gets interested in his inventions. He's breathing fast and shallow. It doesn't sound good.

She knows what to do for an accident. She learned in Girl Scouts.

 _Keep cool._ Willow is completely calm. Yep. She's calm. She sure is. Super calm.

 _Send at once for a doctor._ That's not an option right now. Wilson's not really a doctor. Even if he was, he's sort of preoccupied with bleeding all over. There's no one else here.

 _Prevent panic and keep bystanders at a distance._ That's not a problem.

 _Loosen the clothing, especially any band around the neck, tight corsets or anything else that may interfere with breathing._ She undoes the top button of his waistcoat.

"That's forward," he says. This is a terrible time to make dumb jokes. She would smack him if he wasn't dying.

No, that's no way to go. He's not dying. He's going to be okay.

 _Keep the patient flat on his back._  Already done. That was her first gut reaction, to tell him to lie down.

Her eyes drift to his arm. The white jaggy things are coming out from inside his arm. They're not hounds' teeth stuck into his arm from the outside, which is what she desperately hoped they were.

"I have a compound fracture," he says. "I think I'm going into wound shock."

It's good that he's calm, at least. "Don't worry! I know what to do." Does she know what to do? Yes! A splint. No, not yet. He needs to stop bleeding first. If she hadn't already killed that bad dog, she'd kill it now. No- she'd help Wilson first, and then-

 _Keep cool. Prevent panic._ She could use a good fire. No. Later.

At least Wilson's not making anything worse. He's being very good. He's not screaming, he's not crying.

She's still holding his hand. She presses it. "You're doing well."

He looks up at her with untroubled eyes. "I'm bleeding to death."

"No, you're not!" Maybe he is, but that attitude can't help!

He studies his arm. "I almost certainly am bleeding to death."

Eesh. "Don't talk so much. You just lie there, and I'll-" Shock! He's in shock. Even if he hadn't said so, she'd know, because he's bleeding and breathing fast and his hands are cold...

If someone's in shock, they need to be kept warm. She can do that. A fire- no. No, not a fire. Not yet. She can't put one close enough to him without risking burning him. Especially not now, when she'd be so tempted to make it big. And it would take too long. She takes off her vest instead.

"What are you doing?" He blinks at her. "Don't put that on me. It'll get wet."

"Shh." She tucks the vest over him, avoiding the hurt part.

"Now it's wet." He closes his eyes.

A tourniquet. She knows how to make one of those. But his arm is hurt high up, where is she going to put it? The shoulder? Will that work?

"Willow, it's fine. I have my amulet."

"Your-" The red amulet around his neck. Ooh boy, it's a lot redder now than it was before. "But-"

"Just... it's fine," he says. He looks at his arm. "I can see the bone..."

"Don't look at it."

His voice is getting faint. "It's interesting."

"Okay! Whatever helps," she says. Her heart is thumping. A tourniquet. She has to try it. Oh, no, what if he gets rabies?

Rabies will happen later. The bleeding is happening now. A tourniquet, she'll need cloth for that. She picks up the hem of her skirt. She'll have to tear it.

"Your clothing?" he mumbles. "Willow, don't... just let the amulet do it."

"No."

"You're wasting resources."

"You  _have_ to stop talking!"

He puts a cold hand on her wrist. So cold now. "Willow, it'll be fine."

"No!" Oh no, she hasn't cried in years. She can feel it starting now. Well, of course it is- her best friend is dying. "Where do you go? Where do you go when that thing-" Her breath catches in her throat.

"I'll be right here," he says.

"But what about your soul? What happens to it?"

He blinks. "I don't..."

"I can help you. You can stay with me the whole time," she says. "Just don't talk."

He stares up at her with that hurt, confused look he gets, and shakes his head. "I can't do it..."

"Yes, you can!"

"It hurts..."

She presses her hands to the sides of her head. "Wilson-"

"I can't... recover out here..." he says.

"Wilson..."

He's starting to slur. "I'll die anyway..."

"I..."

"Just let me die now... my arm hurts."

She's not just going to do nothing. She picks up the spear. There's still hound fur matted on it.

He looks at the spear. He looks into her eyes. He looks so scared.

She draws a deep, shuddering breath. "I'm not going to watch you die..."

"All right." His voice is meek. He closes his eyes, flinches, and tips his head back to expose his throat.

She stares at his neck. Her vision blurs over with wet. This is wrong.

She drops the spear. "I'm sorry."


	8. A Fight To The Death; or, Wilson And Woodie Have An Intense Disagreement that is Started by Birds

There's a bird in camp.

It's sitting in a little cage made of sticks. Warbling its bird things. Looking at him with its glittery bird eyes.

Someone put this bird here. Someone fashioned a cage for it. Someone chose to bring this bird into camp.

On one hand, it deserves to be imprisoned. On the other hand, it's  _in camp._

It's a redbird. They're shifty.

There's only one other person here right now. He's sitting by the fire, writing on a piece of papyrus with a stub of charcoal. So that's why Wilson had that young woman burn down all those trees. Not even for cooking, for writing.

Wilson is absorbed in his writing and doesn't look up until Woodie clears his throat.

"Yes?" he says.

"Caught a bird, eh?"

"Oh!" He looks at the bird cage and smiles at it. "Yes, that's my bird."

He looks back down at the paper and continues writing, as if that's all there is to say on the matter.

Woodie scratches his beard. "Your bird."

"Yes. Oh. I should feed it." Wilson puts down his paper and the sad little burned bit of wood, rises to his feet and walks to the birdcage. He takes some perfectly good berries out of his pocket and puts them through the bars one at a time.

Then he strokes the bird. Touches it lightly on the head with the tip of his finger.

It pecks him. Wilson shakes his hand and winces. "Quit it!" he says. He's not really angry, though, not like he should be.

He's bleeding a little.

"I should have fed it sooner," he says.

"Why did you do this?"

"Capture the bird? It lays eggs."

It lays eggs. The eggs will hatch into more birds.

More birds. Flocking. Singing. Taunting. Nesting.

Wilson tilts his head and frowns.

 _You're getting hot under the collar, Woodie,_ Lucy observes.

"We'll eat the eggs," Wilson says. He is leaning back. Seems like he's trying to look taller, maybe. "It's a food source."

"Yeah, food," Woodie says, struggling not to grit his teeth. It's one bird. It's trapped. It'll be fine, it can't do anything in there.

Wilson turns away.

Woodie shudders. He has to chop something. Now.

* * *

There's a new gadget in camp. Some kind of rock attached to a stick. Someone left it here by the fire. Woodie has no clue what it's for.

If there's a new gadget, the source is probably... yep. There he is.

Wilson is sitting there writing again. With fresh charcoal. More poor, burned trees. He doesn't even burn them down himself. He tells Willow to do it, like she's his minion. She seems fine with it, but it's still weird.

Wilson's face is all pale and eggshelly with a few nicks of red. He shaved off his beard. That must be what the gadget is for.

Why? Wilson is short and scrawny-looking. Woodie doesn't know why he wouldn't want to offset those flaws with a nice manly beard.

Wilson doesn't look up. Woodie wonders what he even writes about. What's so dadblamed important?

He peeks over Wilson's narrow shoulder. It's an account of what happened today, from a cityfied point of view.

Woodie sniffs. "Writing in your diary, eh?"

Wilson jumps. "Oh. Er, no. These are my field notes. It's an account of what we've done and encountered here." That sounds like a diary. "I plan to publish them eventually."

He picks up the stack of paper and neatly arranges it. He handles it like a man handles something precious.

He wants to publish them? Who would want to read Wilson's diary?

"Good luck, eh?" Woodie says.

"Thank you," Wilson says, coolly and crisply. He straightens his posture and tips his head back.

Woodie leans back, folding his arms over his chest. "You're welcome."

* * *

Wilson is still at that machine he's building.

He's been up all night, keeping Woodie awake with his clanging and banging and yelping. Something seems to be going wrong with the machine... Wilson is scowling at it and grumbling under his breath. He looks more tired and consumptive than usual. More than once he's flopped down by the campfire with a dramatic sigh only to get up a few minutes later and get back to work even louder.

They don't sleep at the same fire. Wilson usually stays a little ways away from the main camp at a separate fire that he shares with Willow, which is none of Woodie's business.

But he wants this machine to be near everyone. So he's been in the main camp. Keeping everyone up for the sake of this thing.

"Not sure I trust all this stuff," Woodie says to Lucy.

"You don't trust it?"

He looks up. He's used to Wilson sitting around completely absorbed in his foolishness. He didn't expect Wilson to hear.

Woodie looks at the thing that the little man's been building, a perversion of wood and of nature it is. "Nope, never liked all that science stuff."

Wilson puffs himself up and seems to be trying to look taller. If he wants to be respected, he shouldn't shave off that beard. "This is the pinnacle of human thought! This is what separates us from the animals!"

Woodie considers this for a moment before answering. He has never heard Wilson raise his voice before.

"What's wrong with a few animals? Don't see what's so important 'bout this thing." He doesn't see why it's  _so_  important that Wilson should hang around camp tinkering with it all day while that young Willow woman and old lady Wickerbottom and even little Wendy go out and work to gather supplies.

"Not important! We won't last out here without it." There are big patches of sweat on his clothes and the circles around his eyes have gotten darker. Whatever's wrong with his machine, it must have fired him up in a way that the monsters and the nightmares couldn't. He really cares about all this stuff, doesn't he?

Woodie chooses his words carefully. "We won't last out here without the food Willow is off getting."

There is color in Wilson's face for the first time, color that the summer heat alone has failed to bring out. "You don't understand science, do you?"

"Not so much."

"You hidebound caveman."

"Them could be fighting words, eh?"

Wilson is downright pink now. "Fighting words? You want to fight me?"

Woodie's eyebrows shoot up.

 _Don't do it,_  Lucy warns.  _He's not worth it._

Woodie has never once wanted to hurt Wilson, no matter what he's done. However, he's a little curious now. Wilson really wants to fight? Wilson doesn't like fighting. Wilson doesn't even hate birds! "You really want to fight?"

Wilson opens his mouth and shuts it. "If you want to fight-"

"I never said, eh..." Woodie rubs the back of his neck. He's not much of a fighter himself. "Do you care that much?"

Wilson sucks his lower lip into his mouth and looks back at his machine. "Yes! I- I will fight you for the sake of the good name of science!" He runs off to his machine and won't look at Woodie.

Woodie holds his hands up, palms out. "You don't have t-"

"Meet me at dusk!" Wilson sounds wound up, a touch squeaky. "Spears!"

Woodie is not sure what to do now.

* * *

"You challenged him to a duel? Aren't duels for old people?"

Wilson did not realize that he expected Willow to be impressed until she was so obviously not impressed.

"He doesn't trust me," he says. His hands rest on his knees, one of which is jittering. He can't make it stop, so he'll just have to hope Willow is distracted by his words and doesn't notice.

"So you're going to beat him up?" She stokes the fire. "That'll make him trust you, all right!"

Her tone is perfectly happy and nonjudgmental, which somehow just reinforces the feeling he has that she's scorning him. Maybe he'll change the subject.

"Isn't that fire high enough already?" he asks.

Her voice is sweet. "I know how fire works. Don't you trust me?"

"Of course I do!"

She leans in, propping her chin on her fist, making her lips into a pout. "Are you sure? Maybe I need to fight you."

Point taken.

What can Wilson say to explain himself?

He can't shake the feeling that Woodie finds him lacking in some way, and has ever since they met. There's always been something unpleasant in the way other men (larger men) look at Wilson and he doesn't have to put up with that out here. He shouldn't. His mind is brilliant, and that is good enough. That should be good enough. He doesn't have to be everything. So what if his hands get sore when he chops wood? Woodie can't get enough of manual labor- let him do it.

Wilson says none of that.

"This is the only way to settle this," he insists.

"Mmhmm."

Willow is not impressed.

Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. He's heard so many times that real men settle things with duels, and he said something rash in the heat of the moment. But what can he do now, take it back? Unthinkable.

"Did you find any food today?" she asks.

"Um." No.

She shrugs. "I've still got plenty of rabbit. I'll make you some."

Woodie said she was out getting food earlier. Right.

She's not any taller than Wilson. And she's a woman, aren't women supposed to have less upper body strength than men in general?

Wilson is fairly sure he does not have more upper body strength than Willow.

"I can cook…" he offers.

"Nah, that's fine, I like doing it." She sets a flat rock by the fire… right, she likes fire.

"Why do you like fire so much?"

She considers. "Why doesn't everyone love it? Look at it… it's gorgeous!" She reaches out and lightly touches a tip of flame. "It's playing with me."

Wilson wonders what fire feels like…

It feels painful and his burned fingertip tastes like salt.

Willow shakes her head.

Wilson knows that most people aren't like Willow. He knows people can't just reach out and touch fire, he just  _forgot,_ that's all.

He folds his arms over his chest.

The cooking rabbit is starting to smell good. Wilson feels a little weak. He must have been forgetting to eat again. Not such a problem at home, when the worst that could happen would be that his hands could get shaky and he'd drop a hammer on his foot. Out here... well...

Food is scarce, however. Maybe it's not such a bad thing if he forgets to eat once in a while.

"What kind of duel is it?" Willow asks. "Are you two fighting to the death?"

Death? Wilson clutches the edge of the tree stump he's sitting on. "Of course not!"

"Why not?"

"That wouldn't be necessary." Imagine... struggling for life all this time only to die in an impetuous altercation.

"Hmm," she says.

At least he's not dueling Willow. A few times she's offered to teach him some new ways to fight. He took her up on it once. First she was throwing light, tickly punches at his shoulders and then he was flat on his back with her elbow resting on his throat. And he could not get up. And she kept him there for a while. And she sprained his wrist. She claimed that he sprained it himself, thrashing around, but he was thrashing because she had him pinned...

He's not a good fighter.

"Your food is ready," she says.

He takes the piece of rabbit and gnaws on it. It's hot enough to burn but he doesn't care. He doesn't care about stuffing meat into his mouth in front of a woman, either. Willow's seen him in too many states of humiliation for him to think of her as just 'a woman' anyway. She's Willow. She's seen him rolling on the ground covered in mud, blood and vomit. She'll forgive him a little rabbit grease.

The rabbit tastes different. Less dry and bland than usual.

Willow is watching him. He can't read her face.

"Did you add something to this?" he says. Is she waiting for him to notice?

"Salt! I've been boiling seawater." Right, there's plenty of that around. "When you add water and fire, you get salt." She's clearly pleased.

"Brilliant," he says.

She smiles. "I am."

She seasoned his food for him. He has nothing to give her but a new kind of science machine that still won't work. He can't figure out how to power it.

He tucks his burned finger back into his mouth. There is a small cut there too, from a careless slip earlier. It tastes metallic.

Chester nuzzles against Wilson's leg, panting.

The eye bone lying on the ground is a white blur in the corner of his vision. If he looks at it it will look back, he knows. It will look directly into his eyes.

He hasn't slept in days and the heat and the food are soporific. He yawns.

Willow leans forward slightly.

"Tired, huh?"

"Yes…" Too tired to know better, apparently.

"We have a tent again, you know."

They do! He'd forgotten. "I wouldn't want to oversleep and miss the duel." Besides, there's only one tent...

Willow bobs her head. "No problem! I'll wake you. I was gonna stay up and work on some stuff anyway."

"If it's not any trouble." Wilson can barely see straight.

"Naah! Go on, silly sleepy science man."

He crawls into the tent. It's muggy. He takes off his shirt and waistcoat and folds them neatly in a corner. They're soaked with sweat. And everyone could see it. He must smell terrible, he can't tell anymore.

The silk lining of the bottom of the tent is soft and smooth. The ground under it feels cool.

There is a rustling sound and Wilson freezes. But it's only Chester.

This is the farthest Chester has gone from the eye bone. He's moving jerkily, shuddering and making small whimpering sounds.

He's been venturing away from his bone more and more lately. He follows people.

Wilson buries his fingers in Chester's thick fur. Chester whines softly.

"Willow, would you hand me the eye bone?" he says. "Right away, please?"

Willow sticks her head in through the flap. Wilson recoils. "I'm not dressed!"

"Oh, come on," she says, as if it doesn't matter that he's not wearing a shirt, when it does very much matter. "Why do you want the eye bone?"

"He seems distressed," Wilson says, indicating Chester. He tries and fails to stifle a yawn.

"Ohh... poor little guy. He must like you a lot!" Willow withdraws and returns with the eye bone. "What's the matter, Chester, aren't I good enough for you?"

Wilson takes the eye bone and Chester slumps in relief.

"Er, he..."

"I was joking," Willow says. "He hasn't seen you all day. I get it."

"I guess." Willow also hasn't seen him all day. Or yesterday. Or... how long has Wilson been working?

"Good night." She vanishes. Phew.

Wilson lies back down. He no longer gets bothered when Willow sees him stuffing his face, scratching bug bites, picking at peeling sunburn, retching, drooling or covered in filth, but shirtless... that is over the line. It just is.

Chester makes a very good headrest. Wilson can no longer focus well enough to brood on his failures. His body is sobbing for rest.

* * *

_Woodie, this isn't a good idea!_

"I'm not really going to fight him," he explains. "I'll let him get in a lick or two to get over what's eating him and then I'll pin him, eh?"

 _You better be careful,_  she says.  _That little man is creepy and I love you!_

"I love you too!" Woodie's flattered, but not worried.

Footsteps are approaching.

Wilson steps out from the trees. There's one of those piggy football helmets drawn low over his face.

Woodie stands up. "There you are. How do we start one of these things?"

Wilson runs at him without a word.

The smaller man is much quicker and nimbler than he looks. Much more aggressive than he looks. Suddenly Woodie is on the ground with an elbow resting on his throat.

Something is not right here.

Why does Wilson smell like campfire?

Woodie uses his spear to knock off the football helmet. Two pigtails come springing out.

"Yes, twas I!" Willow says.

"Let me up, eh?"

She is wearing Wilson's clothes. They're the same height and both skinny. Woodie was completely fooled.

Lucy is giggling quietly.

Woodie just looks at Willow. "Why?"

"Why would you fight someone half your size, you mean old jerk?" She punches him on the arm.

"You won," he points out.

"He can't fight like I can."

"This was his idea."

"Stupid people matter too," she says.

"Did he send you?" That is despicable.

She shakes her head. "He's asleep. I snuck him a little bit of crow feather."

"I was just going to let him whack me once and then pin him like you did me, eh? I wasn't going to kill him."

"Hmm…"

Woodie rubs the back of his neck. "Maybe I should have said no."

She folds her arms over her chest. "Yeah."

"He called me a hidebound caveman, eh?"

Willow's eyebrows rose. "That was mean!"

That shirt she has on doesn't smell too great. "You'd do a lot for him, eh?"

She seems taken aback. "I'm good at fighting! It's not a big deal." She scuffs at the ground. "I was just going to give him the crow feather and let him sleep through your stupid duel... but then he took his shirt off and we're the same height. So I thought you'd think I was him, and I thought I could beat you..." She grins. "And I did!"

 _It's getting dark,_ Lucy says.

It is.

Willow has noticed. She pulls out her lighter. "Come on, let's keep arguing back at camp."

The darkness falls fast. Willow's lighter is small. It's a one-person flame, really.

"I can't see," he blurts.

"Oh!" she says, and a second later, a tree is on fire.

 _Careful with that!_ Lucy says.

"Whee! It won't burn long enough so we have to go fast!" she says.

They run. The trees are far apart. Willow can barely burn them fast enough to keep Woodie in the light.

Another light is coming towards them- a torch.

Wilson appears, looking ghoulish with face lit from below and eyes round and wild. "Willow!" He grabs her hand.

She tenses. "Oh! What are you doing up?"

His voice is rough. "I woke up and you weren't there. I thought you were dead!"

She squeezes his hand. "You silly! I always have my lucky lighter."

"I thought you'd just stepped away to- but you didn't come back. You weren't anywhere. In the dark-"

"Wilson, shh!" Willow sounds taken aback. "Nothing is going to happen to me!"

Out here, that doesn't seem to be too wise a thing to promise someone.

"Willow-" He breaks off. He's seen Woodie.

"No hard feelings," Woodie says.

"Of course, uh..." Wilson looks from Woodie to Willow and back again. "We were going to duel! Why didn't you wake me up, Willow?" He frowns. "Is that my waistcoat?"

His torch is getting low.

"We can talk about it when we have a pretty fire," Willow says. "A safe, beautiful fire."

* * *

Wilson taps his foot against the ground, sitting hunched and scowling.

"Are you mad at me?" Willow asks.

"No," he says.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm not mad."

"Well, you look mad."

"I'm not mad."

There's an awkward silence.

"Might I have my clothes back?" Wilson asks.

Willow starts to unbutton the stolen waistcoat. Woodie jerks back and covers his eyes.

Wilson sounds offended. "Don't take your shirt off in front of me!"

"All right, sure," she mutters, ducking into the tent.

Wilson sighs and shakes his head. His own modesty is being preserved by a spare piece of log armor.

Woodie searches for something to look at. The fire is big and provides lots of light.

There's something off to the side, glittering like a huge cluster of eyes. "What is that?" he says, reaching for his spear.

"What? Where?" Wilson sees it and relaxes. "Willow made that."

On closer inspection, it's a bunch of red gems being held in a complicated framework of sticks. There are no eyes in the dark.

"I bring her the gems I don't need, and she does things with them. It's beautiful," Wilson claims. "You should see it in the light."

"What does it do?"

Wilson ponders this. "Those gems contain heat power... maybe it would do something if we shone light through it..."

That's not what Woodie meant. So, what, there's no purpose for it? That thing's just some kind of art thing? Why are they making art things out here?

"May I ask you something in strict confidence?" Wilson props his chin in his hands.

"Ask away."

"Do you think I'm useless?"

Wilson leans forward and scowls, the same way he scowls when his machines aren't working.

Woodie's mouth has fallen open. People don't just up and ask that!

 _Tell him yes,_ Lucy says.

"No, I can't tell him that!"

_Well, he asked!_

Wilson squints at him. "Who are you talking to?"

"Thinking out loud," Woodie says. He will not allow this hoser to do experiments on Lucy, or even think about doing experiments on Lucy, or know about Lucy.

Pounding footsteps are approaching. Willow. "What are you two doing?"

"We-"

Willow doesn't let him answer. "Wilson! You're not useless!" She turns to Woodie. "He's  _not_ useless, you mean old thing!" She goes so far as to sock him one on the shoulder.

Woodie recoils. "I never said he was useless!"

"You didn't? Then why-" Willow sighs. "Why are men so stupid?"

 _Who is she calling stupid?_ Lucy grumbles.  _She's the one who hangs out with that basket case._

"This is so stupid. Shake hands and make up," Willow says. Her hands bunch into fists. "I'm not going to put up with this!"

Woodie reaches over the fire and pumps Wilson's hand. The smaller man flinches and cannot quite hide it. Woodie pulls away and finds a smear of blood on his palm. It's not Woodie's blood.

Wilson gives him a warning look and Woodie doesn't say anything. He just wipes his hand on his pants.

Willow scowls at him. She must think Woodie just thinks Wilson is gross.

She turns away and hands Wilson his shirt and waistcoat.

"Thank you. This armor is giving me splinters." Wilson holds his clothes in his lap, making no motion to put them on.

"You really can't change in front of me?" Willow says.

"No," Wilson says.

"Fine. I'll go back in the tent," she says, and vanishes.

Wilson just sits there.

"Not me either?" Woodie asks.

"I don't want to."

He's an odd one.

Seeing Woodie's bemusement, Wilson sighs. "Fine." He pulls off the log armor. He's skinny and pale underneath it, and-

 _It looks like someone took a whack at him with an axe,_ Lucy observes.

It does, although that's probably not what happened. Probably.

Wilson probably doesn't want to talk about that scar, either. Woodie will pretend he didn't see it.

Wilson pulls on his shirt and waistcoat, sniffing and looking away with a scowl. "You can come out now," he says.

Willow comes out and sits down between them. "Are we all friends again?"

"Yeah, sorry about everything," Woodie says. "I didn't mean to be rude."

"There is no offense taken," Wilson says, rather shortly. Woodie still doesn't know what happened to his hand, or why he doesn't want Willow to know. Blisters? Maybe he slipped and cut himself when he was working on his machine.

Woodie really should have been carrying a torch... he can't go back to the other camp without one, he doesn't want to sit here and stare at Wilson and Willow until dawn, and it would be rude to take their torch.

But they don't seem to be paying him any mind...

"Willow," Wilson says, "you do not need to protect me! I'm a grown man and a scientist!"

"And you don't need to run after me when it's dark- I always have fire with me, you know!" She puts her hands on her hips. "Always, always!"

"But it only takes a minute in the dark- why didn't you at least leave me a note?" Wilson gestures at a pile of papers sitting by the fire, though not close enough to catch a spark.

"You were supposed to not wake up," Willow says.

There are drawings on these papers. Some of them are detailed sketches of rabbits and birds- as detailed as you can get with a lump of charcoal, anyway.

"I did wake up and I thought you were gone!" Wilson says. "And-" He clutches the sides of his head. "Where is that amulet I gave you?"

"Oh," she says. "I must have forgot to put it back on."

Then there are some simpler, less realistic birds making bizarre faces. One of them is colored in with red (berry juice, probably) and labeled "Phoenix". Next to that drawing is a note in a different hand- "NO SUCH THING"- but it's followed by a more detailed rendering of the same bird.

 _They were drawing together,_ Lucy says.

Sometimes Lucy is sad when she sees other people doing things that require them to have hands. Woodie tucks his hand into his pocket to give her a reassuring pat.

Hands are wasted on people who draw birds.

Wilson is shaking his head frantically. "You can't take that off! Never! Not ever."

"Sorry..." She takes the red amulet out of her pocket and puts it back on.

"You're going to drive me to distraction." Wilson reaches towards her, in the direction of her face- she turns away and he pulls back, averting his eyes and biting his lip.

Woodie drops his eyes. He nudges aside the top page of the notes. Wilson won't mind someone taking a look if he wants to publish this thing anyway, right?

"You're the one who wanted to fight a duel," Willow says.

Wilson scuffs at the ground and scowls.

He's been drawing different critters from the woods- spiders, hounds, clockwork thingies. There are some sketches of planned inventions.

Ah- a drawing of Willow. She's sitting by a fire, grinning.

They are both looking at him. Woodie's ears burn.

"Those are just some more of my field notes," Wilson says, snatching the pile from him and tucking it away.

"He draws in them," Willow says.

"They're intended to be presented to others who haven't been here, so, yes," Wilson mutters. "I illustrate some of the creatures that aren't encountered... elsewhere."

And will Willow not be encountered elsewhere?

"You're good," Woodie says, wanting to be polite.

Wilson mumbles something. Woodie catches the words 'took a class'.

A silence falls.

The sky is starting to lighten. Woodie pops to his feet. "I'd better get going."

"Bye," Willow mutters.

* * *

It is after midday when Woodie hears the noise of wood being chopped, and he has to go see what's going on.

It's Wilson. He's out of breath. The marks he left on the tree are fidgety and half-baked. That one there isn't even at the right angle.

"You want to do it like this, eh?" He shows Wilson how to hold the axe.

Wilson nods, adjusts his grip and attacks the tree anew. He's sweating.

Woodie could do that so much better and faster but he won't interfere any more. Sometimes a man needs to chop down a tree.

This is going painfully slowly.

 _We should be doing that,_ Lucy urges.  _Chop, chop._

They should. They will. In a little while.

_Come on, Woodie!_

Woodie thinks he has something to say first.

The tree falls. Wilson sits down on it, heaving for breath. "Unnh. Ow." He sets aside the axe, flexes his fingers and winces. "Did you need something?"

Woodie stuffs his hands in his pockets. "You said you're sorry, yeah?"

"I'm very sorry that I wasted your time."

"Not to me, eh?"

Wilson frowns. "I don't know what you're getting at."

"I mean to Willow, eh?"

 _What are you getting at, Woodie?_ Lucy wonders. He can't answer her right now...

Wilson scratches the side of his neck. His skin is bright pink there, with spots of red. The bugs have been bad lately. "Apologize to Willow? Why?"

"You know..."

"No, what do you mean?"

Woodie sits down next to him. "When you make a lady mad, you'd better apologize to her."

"I didn't do anything wrong."

That can be argued, but... "You don't want her to be worried, eh?"

"No... I don't." Wilson blinks. "I don't want Willow to be upset at all."

"So you say you're sorry for worrying her." This is embarrassing. Wilson really needs to be told this? Is that an American thing?

He's pondering Woodie's advice, sitting hunched over with his chin propped on his fist. Wilson tends to bunch himself up when he sits and hunch when he stands. It's an odd thing for a small man to do.

"So I should apologize because she felt bad."

Woodie nods.

"I did make her worry..." Wilson stands up. He squints at Woodie. "Why are you telling me what you know?"

"We're all in this together, eh?" And Wilson doesn't seem so bad after seeing him fret over Willow like that last night, somehow. He's not really a jerk, he's just clueless. It's not his fault if he doesn't know he's clueless.

The bird thing is still weird.

"True." Wilson folds his arms over his chest. "How do..." He clears his throat. "How do you know about... fighting with women?"

"I'm married to one." Although they don't fight much.

"Oh! You must miss her."

Miss her? Oh. Wilson must think... right. A human woman, back home.

Lucy giggles softly.

"Life ain't worth it when she's not around," Woodie says, truthfully.

_Aww..._

Wilson gives him an unexpected look of sympathy. See, not callous. Just clueless.

Now Wilson is tilting his head back, puffing out his chest. "That is why you need me."

"Eh?"

"All will be clear in time..." Wilson sits back down on the fallen tree and looks very serious.

"If you say so, eh?" Woodie might not ever fully understand him.

"Yes." Wilson rests his hands on the tree at his sides, flinches and picks them back up. He notices Woodie looking at his hands. "It's only blisters."

"You need to toughen them up!"

"Right..." Wilson tucks his hands into his pockets. That flash of red there, that was not only a blister. "I should get back to my machine. I know how to power it now..."

It's none of Woodie's business, but there's a prickle at the back of his neck. "How are you powering it?"

Wilson scratches his neck and looks up at the sky. He's watching a bird. Eugh. "Oh... that would take too long to explain."

"Well..." Woodie could say something. Should he?

Wilson averts his eyes, tucking his hand into his pocket.

For now, Woodie will trust him.

"Good luck, eh?"

Wilson looks directly at Woodie and smiles. "Thank you."


	9. Murder Most Foul; or, Maxwell Has A Slight Disagreement With His Niece

a/n: I hope by now you're used to characters wandering around doing things for no reason in these stories. Also no clear beginning, middle or end. Anyway, time for some Maxwell!

* * *

**I Know Who Killed Me**

The light is snatched away from him, replaced by dank rot-smelling moldy wood. He twists and writhes, punching through the sodden mess and breaking free to stand in the sunlight, so much paler than the light he was taken from.

A small figure crouches before him, an irritable prey animal in a floppy straw hat. He looks up at Maxwell, squinting in the sun, lip drawn back in a scowl. Patchy sunburn has painted his nose and cheeks in a painful shade of red.

"That was my statue," Wilson grouses.

Maxwell adjusts his tie. "Oh, dear. Well, this makes things confusing."

Wilson turns away to busy himself with his dirt and seeds and manure. If one can loudly be silent, he is being silent as loudly as possible. Does he think that will deter Maxwell? He's quite used to speaking to people who are ignoring him.

"I've just been murdered," Maxwell continues. "And my prime suspect seems to be innocent."

"Hmm," Wilson says. He certainly looks at home in the dirt, grubbing around like a moleworm. "What happened?"

"A blow from behind finished me off. It was very sudden. Not bad work."

"We both know that's not how I'd do it."

"Oh no." And if it had been Wilson, he wouldn't be calmly gardening in camp right now. He'd be hard at work disassembling Maxwell's old body. They've discussed the matter. "I don't suppose you know who did."

"No."

Maxwell leans down. "Say, pal. Look at me when you say that."

Wilson swallows. His fingers dig into the dirt.

"Now, we both know you'll look eventually, so why bother messing around?" Maxwell says. He can't actually make Wilson do anything anymore, but there's no need to advertise that fact.

He's never had to force this anyway. Wilson always gets curious and looks. Sooner rather than later.

Wilson tilts his face up to him now. The sun hat shifts backwards. Wilson squints as the light filters into his eyes, illuminating each iris.

"Oh, my," Maxwell says.

_(What are you talking about? I don't know anything. If I did, I wouldn't tell you, pal. I don't have to tell you everything anymore.)_

If Wilson can still interact with Maxwell's mind in turn, he doesn't do it now, or he'd see what Maxwell is seeing- one iris is uniformly the same muddled dark blue Maxwell knows and disdains, the other has picked up a wedge of muddled dark red.

Maxwell checks his reflection regularly, and his eyes are the same hazel they have always been. Wilson was down there for a mere few weeks, and he did almost nothing to the outside world, and his eye changed color, so what in the devil was he up to?

"Ehh..." Wilson mewls in pain and tugs the brim of his hat to shade his eyes from the sun. Nothing untoward there, he's always been a tad averse to heat, light, warmth and nature. "Are you done?"

The new color does match his waistcoat, as well as his sunburn. Maybe that's all he was doing. Shame he left the job so unfinished.

Maxwell shrugs. "You don't know anything. Go back to flinging poop."

Wilson sniffs and turns back to his plants, pressing his body low to the cool ground he's digging up. It may be hotter out than is strictly comfortable or safe for humans, but that's no excuse for crawling on your belly like vermin. "Now I have to build another statue."

He has two, even without the one Maxwell's just used up. That seems like enough, but why quibble?

There's nothing more to be said here and Wilson is irritating. Maxwell turns and strides away. So it would seem he has a mystery on his eminently capable hands. Finally, something to  _do_ around here.

Maxwell steeples his fingers together. Who would have a motive?

Quite literally everyone here.

But who would accomplish their objective in such a graceless manner?

Maxwell makes his way over to the site of the murder.

He was standing just here, looking over the cliff to survey his domain. Here's the discarded skeleton. Here's the place where the back of his skull was abruptly caved in. And here are... hmm... that's interesting. Here are his things.

That narrows things down a bit. He's looking for someone who would kill an old man with a blow from behind, leave the body and leave all of his possessions, even the really useful ones, like his shadow armor. (Which he clearly should have been wearing.) Why, even his food is still here!

Waste not want not. He gathers his belongings.

Wilson would have been the most likely candidate even though this doesn't fit his MO, but he couldn't have done this and gotten himself back to the statue before Maxwell respawned. Not Woodie. Too polite, and this dent in Maxwell's old skull looks too round to have been made by an axe blade. Not Wolfgang. Wolfgang would never condescend to strike an opponent from behind. Not Webber. Too short. Not Willow. She would have set him on fire if she wanted to kill him. Unless she wanted to throw off suspicion.

Nah. He doesn't think that highly of her intelligence.

Intelligence... could Wickerbottom have done this? The old lady seems the type to lecture rather than murder, but if she were going to murder, she would do so simply and cleanly. But would she leave all of his things just lying here?

There's the sticking point. WX-78 would certainly be capable of this. Maxwell would put nothing past Wigfrid. Wes... er... well, he'd want to attack from behind, at least. But would any of them leave all of this loot here?

He'll just have to ask them.

The robot strikes Maxwell (ha ha) as the most likely of these simpletons to kill on a whim and then just walk away. Maxwell finds it poking beehives and swatting the bees when they come out to attack.

What fun.

Maxwell waits at a safe distance until, having destroyed every single bee, the imbecilic automaton finally smashes the hive, gathers its loot and turns to leave. It sees Maxwell.

"EVIL HUMAN," the robot bleats.

"The very same. Say, pal, where were you earlier this morning?"

"YOU ARE NOT AUTHORIZED TO ACCESS LOCATION DATA."

Of course. "That's awfully suspicious, isn't it?"

"Are the bees gone?"

Maxwell glances ahead to see that pitiful spider boy sitting at the edge of the clearing, huddled under a straw hat that's much too large for him.

"We wanted to go fishing," Webber volunteers. He's too polite of a child to downright ignore Maxwell. His parents have done a horrible job with him. "Mr. 78 was getting rid of the bees for us."

Maxwell looks around and sees the remnants of several more hives scattered in the grass, and a lone pond with a frog sitting at the edge. "How long did that take?"

"Since sunup, s-" He makes a face and does not complete the 'sir'.

That would seem to rule out the robot for now. And Webber has been preoccupied as well, not that he was a serious suspect.

Hmm.

"Did anyone else see you?" Maxwell asks.

Webber shakes his head, slowly. Though a corroborator would be nice to have just in case, it really doesn't matter much. Webber doesn't lie.

"YOU ARE ADVISED TO LEAVE THE AREA," WX-78 says, stomping closer.

Maxwell turns to look down his nose at the robot. It is difficult, the sun reflecting off his bronze casing is getting in Maxwell's eyes. "And why should I do that?"

"I AM TIRED OF LOOKING AT YOU."

Delightful as ever.

"The feeling is mutual."

Maxwell turns and walks away with Webber's politely reproachful eyes on his back.

The sun is getting high. Ugh. How unpleasant. Through force of habit, Maxwell sends out a complaint.

_(Bit hot, pal.)_

Whoops. Wilson's not in charge any longer, so there's no point in dragging him into this.

_(Considering where we are, you'd think it would be hotter.)_

Maxwell's eyebrows raise.

_(You can hear me?)_

Wilson exudes a soft hum of pique the way a machine exudes a soft hum of current.  _(You know I can hear you. Was there anything useful you wanted to say?)_

Maxwell had no idea their connection still reached this far, although on closer reflection, why shouldn't it? It's spanned great distances before, after all. And even with the loss of powers on both sides, it shows no sign of diminishing.

If only he'd made links with the others! It seemed like a waste of time then, but now it would be quite useful. He wouldn't have to walk around like this, for one thing.

Did Wilson make any links while he had the power?

 _(I don't suppose you've talked to anyone else in this manner.)_ Maxwell has some vague idea of a relay loop.

_(No, I wanted to see what my friends were doing but I respected their privacy.)_

This is almost certainly a lie.

Wilson is still sort of hanging around, waiting for a reply.

 _(Buzz off,)_ Maxwell tells him.

So that's WX-78 eliminated- and Webber, not that he needed eliminating.

Who is the next most likely suspect? Probably Wigfrid. Maxwell is the villain of her story, and she's shown a limited ability to separate fiction and reality.

He finds her on the prairie, her usual stomping grounds. She's chasing beefalo. Wes is sitting in the grass, watching her. No use asking him anything, of course. Maxwell will just ignore him.

The shaggy beasts tearing around in an angry panic and bellowing and the shaggy beast tearing after them and bellowing are nearly indistinguishable. It's too warm to be running around like this. Not that he'd choose to run around like that in any weather.

One beefalo crashes to its knees. Another follows. Soon Wigfrid is climbing atop the heap of the fallen and brandishing her spear with a cry of triumph.

Wes applauds, as if something great happened here. Wigfrid takes a deep, sweeping stage bow and hops to the ground. It's going to get even smellier around here once she starts butchering those, so Maxwell hurries (with an air of speedy nonchalance of course, it's unseemly to  _look_ like you're hurrying) to her. "You. Wigfrid."

She turns. She scowls. "Villain! What dark deeds bring you here?"

He can rule her out right now. She wouldn't ask that if she'd killed him, she'd either be gloating in her success or confused to see him alive. But since he came all the way over here... "Did you take arms against me this morning?"

"An honorable warrior does not attack the elderly without provocation, no matter how evil they are!"

Maxwell is under sixty, he's not  _elderly._ Oh, who cares, she's a bloody puppet. Literally, a bloody puppet. Also a hairy puppet and a manure-y puppet at the moment. "So that's a no."

She does a spinny thing with her spear. It's very theatrical, a gesture that would look impressive onstage and looks ridiculous up close. "The silent one was with me all day. He will vouch for my honor!"

"Oh. Yes. Of course. Wes. The mime. He'll vouch for you. I see. I'll ask him." Maxwell turns and- oh blast and tarnation he's right here! Right! Here!

He followed Maxwell. He's doing that awful thing. He's mimicking Maxwell's every gesture, scowling, hands on hips, chest thrown out- he's- _miming_  him.

"I'll bash  _your_ head in," Maxwell grumbles, sweeping past him. Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. This is why he put Wes in that trap. Why didn't they  _leave_ him in the trap, huh?

Maxwell heads for the trees and the shade without a backwards glance at those idiots.

That leaves Wickerbottom but he has no idea where she might be and she's not a terribly likely suspect anyway, really, but if not her... who? Someone did this...

He hears someone chopping wood. May as well check on whoever that is.

It's Willow. She squints at him, pausing in mid-chop. "Is there something you want?"

There is a neat pile of firewood next to her and she is in the middle of a swath of cleared trees.

"Gathering supplies, are we?" he asks.

"Yep, and they're not for you."

"Been at it a while, have we?"

"Not done yet." She turns away and resumes chopping.

"Isn't there a man in plaid to do that for you?" he says.

"I light more fires, so I get more firewood."

"How egalitarian."

"Yep."

The sun heats his back. He allows himself to fancifully pretend it is the doing of this irascible igneous idiot. It feels like what she wants to do to him. "And have you been here since morning?"

"I've been around doing stuff since morning."

"Anything interesting?"

"You don't have anyone to talk to, huh?"

"What if I told you someone had killed me this morning?"

She turns to look at him. "Why are you here, then? Did you use one of Wilson's statues? Rude!"

Technically, everything here is Maxwell's, if you ask him. She didn't ask him.

"Did you kill me?"

Sweat is forming on the back of Maxwell's neck. He hates it when his suit gets sweat on it.

Willow is staring at him. "What would I do that for?"

"There are all sorts of reasons."

"I don't have time to kill people who are just going to come back! And I don't do mean stuff like that anyway. Hmph." She turns away.

Maxwell leans casually against the nearest un-chopped tree. It is very hot. The heat seems to be rising by the minute. Even Willow is wearing a hat to shade herself from the sun.

A drink would be nice. Too bad there's nowhere to get a gin and tonic around here.

But back to the matter at hand. He says, "Do you know who around here would go in for that sort of thing?"

"Murder?"

"No, pick-up sticks. Yes, murder."

"I don't know! Don't ask me." Willow hefts her axe. "Go away so I can chop!"

Maxwell does not immediately move. His vision is getting blurry. It's just too hot.

Suddenly Willow is staring up into his face with a small noise of exasperation. She holds out her hand. It's full of melty ice.

Ew.

"Take it! You're going to get heatstroke, you stupid old man."

It's for him? She's helping him?

After all he's done, why would she help him?

She insistently presses the ice into his hand and he mechanically raises it to his face. Maybe it's poisoned.

It tastes like hand sweat, but it's not poisoned.

She watches him. "Better?"

"Yes."

"Good... now get lost!"

Maxwell makes his way slowly back towards the camps, sticking to shade as much as he can. She helped him. No one helps him. No one...

_Wilson stares at the lock. He will unlock it. He can't do otherwise. Curiosity is not a normal drive in the man, it eats him, hammers relentlessly at his mind. That is what got him here. That is why Maxwell will finally be free. Oh, Maxwell had his doubts. Many of them. Wilson is not a terribly... effective man. But in the end, that curiosity was a force stronger than fear, pain, incompetency or mortal dread._

_He's raising the divining rod. He's going to unlock it. There is no room for joy here, but there is a cold, calm relief. Yes. End it._

_Instead of the rod descending, it hesitates. Murky blue eyes lock onto Maxwell's face._

_Time seems to suspend. There is something in that gaze that is not meant for people like Maxwell. Something that should have been lost to him the moment he took control here. And it shouldn't be coming from a pathetic little nothing like Wilson- Wilson doesn't deserve to pity others he should be the one pitied he is pitiful and-_

Maxwell's footsteps slow to a stop. He has entered the main camp. It's more of a meeting place now. Almost none of them sleep here anymore, having branched off into their own individual camps, making a sloppy sort of proto-village. Woodie stays alone in the woods with his axe. Willow and Wilson are all buddy-buddy off to themselves. Webber has his spiders. Who knows what WX-78 does?

Wickerbottom still sleeps here in the central camp, but she's not here now. There are no puppets here.

There are shadows here. The sunlight is muted here.

She is sitting by the extinguished fire pit.

The Nightmare Queen.

She gazes at him, placid as ever. "Did you enjoy your dose of death, Uncle?"

Of course. He should have known. Who else? He was killed swiftly, with no nonsense, and not one of his possessions was touched. She doesn't need them, after all.

Wait.

_Uncle?_

He is. He is her uncle. He never realized. Back then she was a pink, chubby baby with fluffy golden hair and there were two of her. She was nothing like she is now.

"You were having some fun with me, were you?" he says.

She crosses one leg over the other. She is not really here, of course, but she looks like she is. Except that not one hair is out of place. Except that she's not sweating. Except that her skin is as smooth and false as porcelain.

She is dressed all in black, naturally. He'll admit, it's classy as getout.

It's not hot anymore. In fact, he feels a bit of a chill.

"I believed death was what you wanted," she says. She's so tranquil.

Maxwell tucks his hands into his pockets and wishes for a cigar. Wickerbottom took them all. Called it a 'nasty habit'. If only people stayed dead here, he'd show her what a nasty habit is... "It was interesting, I'll give you that."

It takes a lot out of you to manifest up here, when you're down there. And she's still here. Not fading a mite. Impressive.

"Did you have anything else to say to me or are you here to kill me again?" How did she do it? Maxwell never hit on a way to directly kill people...

She folds black-gloved hands over her knee. "Do not rebuild the door. See that no one else does."

"I wasn't planning on rebuilding it," says Maxwell, not adding that he can't control what these puppets do anymore, nor does he care.

"I am your rightful heir. There is nothing in the other world for me. I do not plan to abdicate."

She says this with an air of finality. When she is finished, she stands up and strides into the forest, where she fades away into the shadows.

Well. Well, well, well. Not bad. She has potential.

Her passing leaves the camp feeling very empty, quite silent. Maxwell slowly walks out of it, towards one of the sub-camps, his feet leading him almost of their own accord.

He crouches next to the lean-to. Inside, Wilson is spread out on his back, trembling ever so slightly, his chest heaving with the heat. His eyes are closed but he's awake.

"I just spoke to your successor," Maxwell says. "You're off the hook for my murder once and for all."

"Why is it so hot?"

"Don't you want to know who killed me?"

Wilson just moans.

Maxwell steps away. That unnatural blue fire contraption seems like it would be helpful about now. He sits next to it and starts it up with some grass and logs that have been left nearby for this very purpose.

Ah. Much better.

Drawn by the prospect of relief, Wilson crawls out of the shade and sits down on the ground next to the cold flames. He is greasy and gritty from sweating into the dirt. He looks damp and wilted all over. One wonders why he didn't do this himself... ah, well, for a scientist he's deplorably poor at logical reasoning. Always has been.

He rubs his eyes. "You talked to Wendy?"

"I did."

"How is she?"

"How do you think she is?"

Wilson sighs shakily, hands hiding his eyes from the light.

Maxwell would kill someone for a cigar. Oh, well. He can't have one, that's all.

He leans back on his hands. Wilson sits there curled up in the dirt. To think that once he dared to pity Maxwell... only to take Maxwell's place, be swapped out with a twelve-year-old girl and come back as  _this._

Whatever. With that murder mystery wrapped up there's not much to do around here...

Maxwell squints into the too-bright sky. All is calm.

It won't stay calm for long. Not with the Queen of Nightmares at the helm.

* * *

A/N: At this time it is not confirmed canon that Maxwell and Wendy are related, no. They may very well not be related at all. It seemed like an interesting and fitting idea for this story, so I used it- I'm not suggesting that it's true.


	10. Wendy

a/n: This story is set in the same continuity as some of the others and makes reference to them, on purpose, so no, I didn't just forget I'd already written about this stuff. :P Also, there's an animal dissection in this one, so if you don't want to read about that, skip from "The longer Wilson was trapped on the island, the easier it became to think of ways to cobble together things he wanted from the available materials" to the next scene break.

* * *

When he first spoke to her, she was sitting on a stump, covered in mud, blood streaming from her legs. Her face was pale and placid. A child in shock, he thought.

He was going to have to take care of her. Clean the wounds and bandage them without hurting her, even though he felt weak and shaky and couldn't concentrate. Couldn't Wickerbottom do it?

He checked. She was still busy with the other one, the man. Wilson was going to have to help the little girl. So many people now! After being alone here for so long, and then with only Willow, seeing three people in the same spot felt strange.

He had to focus. This child was injured.

He knew what to do and how to do it but he'd never actually done it. Not on a living patient. He had actually intended at one point to go into pediatrics, and then decided not to, because children were frightening little sticky demon things that threw rocks at hats and laughed at everything and he didn't want to deal with them.

The little girl was just sitting there waiting to be cared for. Poor thing. She must be frightened and in pain. She wasn't laughing or throwing rocks.

The hot water was ready. He dipped the cloth into it. It was hot, but not hot enough to burn his hands. That seemed about right. He was quite dizzy, and deeply regretting his choice to test out the blue meat. But how else would he have known it had no benefits? This was exactly the risk he'd decided to take, and unfortunately it hadn't paid off. That was all.

"This will hurt," he said. How did one professionally console a child in pain? "If you would like to hold my hand, you can do that."

She slowly blinked her calm, pale eyes. "It cannot hurt as much as my soul."

Wilson did not know how to answer that.

"Treat my wounds however you'd like," she said. "I will decline to hold your hand, if you don't mind."

All right, then. That was for the best, he should really have both hands free for this anyway.

There were three deep gashes scored into each leg. This shouldn't happen to a little girl. He cleaned them, carefully. She did not cry. She didn't even seem interested, though she did flinch once or twice.

"I'm going to bandage you," he said. "It will sting."

"Do what you must," she said.

She was so calm! It had been comforting at first, but now it seemed unnatural. Of course, everything was beginning to seem odd and threatening at the moment. This didn't feel like a normal headache...

He chided himself. A frightened child should be allowed to express herself however she wanted. Wilson's medical status was none of her concern.

He wrapped the honey-soaked papyrus around her legs.

She looked into his face with the first signs of interest. "Your hands are so cold. Like death."

Wilson had often heard that, even when he felt perfectly well. Perhaps he had some undiagnosed circulation problem. Well, if he did, he wasn't going to be able to get it diagnosed out here.

"I'm sorry about that," he said.

"Oh, don't apologize. It's quite refreshing."

"Oh. Thank you, then." As soon as he said that it no longer seemed like the right thing to say. Too late.

He looked over her bandages. "I think that's it," he said to himself. He hoped it didn't show on his face- children should not have to doubt their doctors- but the blood had gone from his extremities to his internal organs, leaving his skin cold and sticky all over- probably because something awful was starting to happen in his abdominal cavity. Darn blue meat. "Do you need anything else?"

"I will not perish today," she said, looking away. "You've been effective."

"Does it hurt?"

"You've done enough."

There was nothing more he could do anyway, he didn't have the supplies for anything else. He certainly didn't have any pain medication for her. Or for himself, for that matter.

Wilson stood up and dusted himself off. There was a metallic taste in his mouth. Where was Willow?

He spotted her a little ways away. She'd made her own fire. A fire with just him and Willow! They could be alone together again. Wilson wouldn't have to make conversation or pretend to be more successful than he was. He could rest his throbbing head. And her fire looked big and warm, too- he had a chill.

But Wendy! Should she be left alone?

She motioned him away, as if she'd read his thoughts. "I'll be fine."

"Ah. If you need anything, I'll be just over there."

"How shall I call you?"

"Just shout."

She was very patient. "I don't know your name."

Had he really forgotten to introduce himself? "Wilson. Higgsbury. Wilson P. Higgsbury. Percival- the P stands for that. Percival. I'm... call me... call me whichever one of those you'd like!"

"I see. It's a pleasure to meet you."

He bowed slightly, because someone sometime had told him to bow when he met young ladies, and then he stopped bowing about halfway though, because it felt weird, but maybe it would have been polite to finish... his head was swimming. "All mine," he mumbled. "The pleasure, I mean."

"All right, now I know how to call you," she said. "You can go. I believe I feel better than you do."

That ended his first encounter with Wendy Carter.

* * *

The longer Wilson was trapped on the island, the easier it became to think of ways to cobble together things he wanted from the available materials. He was getting quite good at it, if he did say so himself.

His newest invention was simple enough. Wooden splinters served as simple pins to hold open the flayed skin of his current specimen. The rabbit's internal structures were on full display for him to sketch from.

Charcoal had never been his preferred tool, too messy and smudgy, but there wasn't a lot of choice here. He just had to be careful and concentrate.

He soon lost himself in the drawing enough to forget the itch of his bug-bitten skin. Certainly enough not to notice he was watched. Perhaps he wouldn't have noticed anyway- here, he often felt he was being watched even when no one was in sight. (He wouldn't find out why that was until it was far too late.)

But then, as he was using a thin stick to nudge aside a flap of membrane that was obstructing his view of the liver, he looked up. Two identical pairs of eyes watched him from a few feet away.

He jumped and dropped his stick into the rabbit's abdominal cavity. "Wendy!" He swallowed. "Abigail!"

"Did we startle you?" Wendy asked.

"No," he said. "Not at all." And he wondered why he was lying to her. Er, to them, rather. "I was just doing a bit of research. This is all completely scientific."

"You dropped this." She reached into the rabbit and retrieved his stick.

He blinked. "Oh. Thank you!" He took the scrap of wood from her hands. It was sticky with fluids.

She peered into the rabbit. "Are you doing a sketch?"

"Yes..." Wendy appeared completely unfazed.

"It's in very good condition," she said.

"I trapped it and snapped its neck." Wilson found himself flinching slightly to hear himself speak of such frank violence. Wendy showed no such reaction.

"What's this here?" she asked, pointing into the rabbit.

"Ah! That is the gallbladder." He reached in and picked it up, having already cut it loose to arrange it in a slightly better position for the illustration. He squeezed it in the palm of his hand and explored its lukewarm surface with his fingertips- a habit of his in dissection.

Wendy still was not showing the slightest hint of discomfort. Remarkable. Even Wilson had not been this calm when confronted with his first dead animal. Wendy must be keenly interested in science!

"Would you like to hold the gallbladder?" he said.

Abigail made a soft sound. Wilson nearly dropped the gallbladder.

"No thank you, I don't think I need to touch it," Wendy said. She pointed into the cavity again. "Abigail is wondering about this structure."

Wilson peered at the structure in question. His nose wrinkled. "That... requires further study..." He had no idea what it was. He'd never seen anything like that inside a rabbit before. It was spongy, and all of them had it here.

"I had a question for you," Wendy said. "You seem to know some anatomy."

"Yes! What would you like to know?" What a nice little girl.

"I've been having trouble making a clean kill," she said. "You snapped this rabbit's neck? I find that difficult. I usually use an axe... like this." She mimed chopping at the rabbit's throat. "But it takes several hits."

"Oh," Wilson said. That was not a question he'd expected. "Perhaps someone else can kill your food for you..."

"It is unwise to not have the skill myself," she said.

"I see." He tilted the rabbit's head to the left. "You've been attacking the trachea. Try here. You'll cut the jugular vein... there will be a lot of bleeding, however..."

"I see. Thank you." She bobbed her head, and Abigail floated in a way that somehow suggested she was giggling. "I'll leave you to your work now."

As Wilson watched her leave he found his fingertips finding his throat, hesitating on the cartilage around his windpipe, easily palpable through the skin. The image of the rabbit struggling to breathe through a shattered trachea had found him and was hard to shake.

What a calm little girl.

* * *

There was nothing for him to do but lie there and wait for Willow to come back. His arm was splinted, but that was barely any help. It was almost a joke, that little length of wood attempting to do anything about this injury.

It didn't do anything about the pain. Nothing did anything about the pain. And there was no reason for it. It was silly, Willow's clinging to him like this. He hadn't thought she was squeamish at all, but here it was- she couldn't bear to let him die for whatever reason. So here he was. Just lying here, useless. It was almost as bad as that rotten sanatorium. He had thought that out here, no matter what other awful things happened, long boring days in a sickbed were far behind him, but here he was. And not even a book to read.

Then he opened his eyes, and she was there. Not Willow. Wendy. Observing him solemnly.

"There is little hope for you this way," she said. "I see you are wearing your amulet..."

Wilson nodded. He'd been trying to tell Willow that for days. The amulet's power was fading, too. He could feel it. It wouldn't last much longer. And once it ran out...

Wendy held up an axe. "Perhaps I might... hasten things?"

He stared at the axe blade.

"Finally!"

"All right." She drew back the blade-

But. She was a little girl. There were certain things little girls shouldn't be subjected to. And cold-blooded murder was probably one of those things. Even if he had the amulet- this didn't seem right.

"Wait!"

"Mm?"

"No... this..." He was weak and his breathing was shallow. It was hard to talk. He'd lost too much blood, that was the problem. And he hadn't had enough food. In this useless state, and with women and children who needed it, he was reluctant to ask for more... "Just wait..."

She adjusted her grip on the axe. "Are you certain you want to live this way?"

"I don't want to." That was not the problem.

"Then allow me." She placed soft, gentle fingertips on the side of his neck. He closed his eyes, swallowing. Then, an edge of cold against his skin, and...

The life quite literally ran out of him in a warm tide. It was so swift. So easy. Just as he'd thought it would be, if people just stopped for one second stringing him along in that helpless, useless state. Finally...

When the light cleared, he was standing. He could stand again.

The ground was splattered with blood. Wendy was lying on her side, peacefully sleeping, a victim to the amulet's radiating power. Her forearms were red with the spilled juice of his most recently terminated life.

She'd hit the carotid artery with her first cut. There would have been even more blood if there had been more left in his body, he'd venture to say. She must have practiced that.

Abigail had arrived somehow when he hadn't been looking. She watched him with blandly curious eyes- he accepted her now- just one more thing to not understand. Someday, when he had more equipment.

Wilson nodded to her. He crouched down and began to clean his blood off of Wendy's arms, as gently as possible so as not to wake her. This seemed... wrong. He should have stopped her...

"Wilson?"

Willow was standing there, two rabbits in her hand, held by the horns. They weren't struggling. Dead. Her eyes were staring.

"What happened?" she said.

"Ah! Well-" What could he say? 'I tried to stop her?' She was a little girl. He couldn't just say that she'd decided of her own accord to murder him- a grown adult- and he unable to stop her. What if she had nightmares? There was so much blood, and humans were instinctively disturbed by blood...

Willow was still staring at him. "Wilson,  _what happened?"_

She was so pale.

"It was-" he started, but she cut him off.

"Be a minute," Willow said, setting the rabbits down on the ground. She turned and walked away, and squatted on the ground, and lit a fire in the grass. He'd never seen her do  _that_ before. "Whee!"

He stepped closer. "Just a minute!" she said. She trailed her fingers back and forth through the flames.

He stepped back. He had to let Willow know that this situation didn't warrant such an upset. He opened his mouth to explain, but no sound would come out. His throat was completely locked.

That hadn't happened since he'd come here. He had dared to hope it was over. He cleared his throat and swallowed, to no effect.

The fire went out. Willow stood up, brushing her bangs back. Wilson tried to speak, and still could not, so he put his arms around her.

She stiffened at first, but before he registered that and started deliberating whether to let her go, she had turned and pressed her cheek to his shoulder. She was trembling.

Wilson couldn't remember the last time he'd given someone a hug. He hoped he wasn't doing it wrong. Was this inappropriate? Probably. He'd just... he hadn't been able to talk, and Willow was sad, and she didn't seem angry that he'd done this...

"Just tell me what happened," she said. Her voice was whispery and squeaky. He hated hearing her sound that way.

He gulped. He still could not speak. He wasn't exactly sure how he'd explain himself if he could, anyway.

"Tell me what happened!" she said, louder. Now she was getting angry-

"Nothing happened that was not inevitable." That was Wendy's voice, muzzy with sleep. "His arm began to bleed again... his life went with it."

Willow seemed to accept this. She was quiet, trembling in his arms. He ran his hand over her hair. Her ponytails were matted. She had no hairbrush. Maybe he could make her one.

Wendy had lied. Why had she lied? Had she lied? The events of a few minutes ago didn't seem plausible now. And he'd been in a horrible state. He'd probably been hallucinating it. Maybe his wounds had gotten infected at the last...

...but why would he spontaneously bleed out with no warning? There was a lot of blood on the ground, and his condition had been stable.

"Sheesh, I'm sorry," Willow said, bringing him back to the present. "That bad dog! I should have gotten there sooner." She was trying to sound casual, but her voice trembled.

Apologizing! She was apologizing! No, no no! He'd never considered that she might blame herself like this.

"That wasn't your fault!" he managed to say.

She said nothing for a moment. Poor Willow! Was that why she'd been so upset by the whole thing? She shouldn't feel guilty... it was... he hadn't told her how he'd gotten over by the hound nests in the first place. How he'd been thinking about wolves. And how they had evolved into dogs, at some point. Domesticated. Because of some enterprising, plucky human. And. Wilson considered himself fairly enterprising. And plucky. And he'd had some blue meat on hand. The hounds liked blue meat.

It hadn't been Willow's fault at all.

He was still holding her. He should let go of her. He let go. He hoped no one noticed he was blushing. Funny reaction, that. Involuntary. Nothing to be ashamed of. Right.

Wendy looked calm. Sleepy. Her sister floated by her shoulder, restless.

"When did Abigail come back?" Willow asked. She sounded cautious.

A memory was tugging at him. Wendy killing a butterfly and a glowing shape erupting from the ground next to her.

There was a mark on the side of his neck. Not a mark he could feel with his fingertips and probably not a mark that could be seen, but a mark just the same.

* * *

The lean-to had been made for sleeping out of the sun, but it was proving effective at avoiding rain, too. He and Willow were sitting with their backs together, creating a sort of warm, dry, mutual chair.

Wilson had recently discovered that berry juice and redbird feathers could make for serviceable ink and pens. It was easier to control, easier to write with and easier to sketch in details with than lumps of charcoal.

Other benefits too, he discovered as he licked a tart, sweet, sticky ink smudge off of his thumb.

"Hmph," Willow said.

"What's that, dear?"

Had he said 'dear'? He hadn't meant to say 'dear'. Had she noticed the 'dear'?

She didn't call attention to it. "Wendy, you're going to get wet!"

Wilson leaned over and craned his neck to see Wendy lying out there in the rain, on her back, on the ground.

"Come in here! There's room," Willow said. "Get out of that nasty old muck."

"I prefer not to," she sighed.

"Why not?"

"It's better this way."

Willow 'hmmphed' again.

Wilson pressed his back gently against hers, to remind her that if she wanted company in here she already had it. "Wendy is quite unflappable," he said.

"She's out there getting wet," she complained.

"She'll come in if she wants to."

"It's gross out there. She'll catch a cold. Wendy, come on in here with us. It's nice and warm in here. Not like fire, but warm."

"Warmth is not for everyone," Wendy said.

"That's stupid."

Wilson interjected here, fearing an argument. "I'm sure she has enough sense to come in out of the cold!"

"Then why won't she?"

"She prefers to be out there. It's not that cold. There's no use arguing with her anyway." He studied his sketch. He didn't really need to keep drawing birds. He had plenty of illustrations of birds. It was soothing to draw birds...

"Maybe the water will fill the hole in my heart," Wendy sighed.

Wilson's backrest hopped to her feet with a 'harrumph' and he nearly fell backwards. "Hey!" It was not cold in the lean-to, but his internal temperature adjustments had been relying on the contact with Willow's body heat and were going to need to recalibrate a bit.

Willow stomped back into the lean-to, dragging a disgruntled- but not struggling- Wendy by the ankle. She dropped her on the ground in the shelter and sat back down. "There," she said. "I fixed it."

"Hmph," Wilson said. Wendy was going to make everything damp.

"And shame on you, leaving a little girl out in the rain." Willow picked up the pieces of flint she'd been sharpening and got back to work.

Wendy rolled baleful eyes over to him. She wasn't a normal little girl. Couldn't Willow see that? Not that her company in here wasn't welcome, but she hardly needed to be babysat.

She was shivering.

He touched her hand. It was like ice. "Wendy! You're frozen! Why didn't you come in?"

"I told you so, you blockhead," Willow grumbled. She was no longer in physical contact with him.

She could catch cold! Wilson dug a warm thermal stone out of the nearest chest and nudged it against Wendy's side. "Willow, would you make a nice big fire?"

"Now you're all worried?"

"I didn't realize... why on earth didn't you come into the shelter?" he sputtered.

Willow was getting up. She never did turn down a request for a nice big fire.

Wendy stared up at the ceiling. "What is the  _point,"_ she said- not asked.

Did she want to freeze to death?

* * *

Wickerbottom turned the page.

"If I were a woman, I would kiss as many of you as had beards that pleas'd me, complexions that lik'd me, and breaths that I defied not; and, I am sure, as many as have good beards, or good faces, or sweet breaths, will, for my kind offer, when I make curtsy, bid me farewell."

She closed the book.

Wilson blinked and looked around. Wickerbottom's voice was rather kind and soothing and grandmotherly and he had never really liked Shakespeare much. He hadn't been asleep, or anything. Nope.

Wendy and Webber hadn't lost interest. They were sitting on the ground, looking solemn. Hadn't Wickerbottom said this was a comedy? Maybe they were struggling to make sense of it. Although they tended to always be rather solemn.

"I do hope you enjoyed it," Wickerbottom said.

"I prefer his tragedies, but it was an effective reading," Wendy said.

Webber sniffled and scuffled in the dirt. Wilson was instantly awake for real.

Wickerbottom leaned forward attentively. "What seems to be the trouble, young man?"

"Nothing," he said, "only- mum and dad used to read to me, is all." He sounded apologetic. "We miss them sometimes."

"Oh dear," Wickerbottom said. She put the book carefully to one side and patted her knees. "Come here."

With some hesitation, Webber went to her. She folded him onto her lap and stroked the fur on his head with a manner both businesslike and gentle. She did not tell him he would see his parents again.

Wilson tried and failed to swallow the lump in his throat. He dropped his eyes to the ground. Maybe he could make Webber some toys, or something...

He noticed Wendy out of the corner of his eye. Wendy! She must miss her parents too. She never said anything. She never asked anything of anyone, unless it was some trifle like a snack or an extra piece of straw. And he hadn't exactly tried to make friends. She was-

_(scary)_

-er, shy. And perhaps she was afraid to reach out. He, the adult, should let her know that he was available for help whenever she needed it.

He held his arms out to her. She stared at him, and then a rueful look came onto her face. "I am beyond comforting, Mr. Higgsbury, but thank you." Her tone was polite, but it was quite clear that his attentions were not needed.

He dropped his arms. Right. Of course.

"If it is any help," Wendy said, turning to Webber, "at least your parents cannot see what's become of you."

A silence fell.

Wendy continued: "I doubt your current state would make them happy."

Webber stared off into space. Wickerbottom frowned. Wilson felt like he should do something but he didn't know what.

"It's difficult," she said. "Seeing someone change, and being unable... I've just upset you. Never mind." She stood up and started to walk away.

Wickerbottom was busy with the other child, so Wilson followed her, catching up with her shortly, in the shadows of the woods.

She turned to him. "Yes, Mr. Higgsbury."

He had had vague ideas of either reprimanding or consoling her. Now that he was faced with her cold, solemn face, he instinctively held his arms out again.

"I don't want a hug," she said.

"I do! You look so sad!"

"I don't follow."

"What  _do_  you want?"

"I want one thing only and you can't give it to me. Please, just give me some space," she said, turning away.

He followed.

"This isn't much space," she said.

"I can't leave you out here alone out here!" He'd give her space when they got back to camp.

"I spend a lot of time alone out here."

He might have to talk to the others about that. "That's not good. You're just a child. You could be killed..."

"I know."

Maybe she was afraid of him. The last time they'd been alone together, she'd watched him die. He wished Willow were around, she seemed to know what to say in these situations. She always knew when he needed cheering up, at least, even though she spent most of her time making fun of him if he didn't happen to need cheering up.

"Isn't there anything I can do?" he said.

She whirled around to face him. "I want my sister. She's gone."

"Oh."

"And none of your playthings can bring her back."

"I'm sorry."

She folded her arms over her chest, staring into space. "There's nothing to be done."

Maybe she was right.

Wilson scuffed at the ground. There had to be something to say that would help her, but he didn't know what it could be. And so in the end, he stood there and let her walk away.

* * *

She stands before him, infernal rod gripped tightly in her hand.

He chafes and tugs. Wrists move one inch or so, hit pain and stop. All right. That's fine. He doesn't need to move anymore.

"Get out!" he says. He can turn his voice into a bellow out there, but in here it sounds shrill and brassy. "You've come too far. You're starting to make me mad!"

She looks him over. Her eyes drift to the side and down. His hand, probably. "Not what I expected."

"Aha! So you were curious... not everyone is cut out to know these things. Leave research to the researchers!" He tugs on his restraints, not because he wants to anymore but because this ridiculous carbon/hydrogen/oxygen shell he is anchored to is still running subroutines of fear, adrenaline, the screaming animal need for continued existence. It insists that he is injured and thirsty and captive, when pain and thirst mean nothing anymore. A sheer nuisance. Almost as annoying as that incessant ragtime number.

Her eyes continue to drift over him. "I did not expect to find you... alive."

"Are you satisfied now? I'm doing important work here. I mustn't be interrupted. Go play."

She stares at his legs.

"My face is up here!" he barks. "You've seen blood before."

"Did Maxwell tell the truth, then?"

"Maxwell?" he spits. "Forget about that has-been and his bunnies out of hats. I'm in charge now. Don't worry! I'm a genius! But you have to leave me to my work! I've already lost so much precious time-"

"I'm sorry to interrupt, but this is a horrible distraction," she says, and she turns off the music. Oh, heaven, silence.

"I've been listening to that horrible thing for so long," he says.

She looks into his eyes and he sees something in her look that he never noticed before. But it was there...

_(Yes, it was there when you offered her help to ease your conscience. She has always seen you for what you are.)_

And what he... still is. After all of that?

"Enough of this. If you won't leave, I'll have to get rid of you!"

He tries to send her back and out of here and he can't. He can't get rid of her.

What... what was it...

_(Even a King is bound to the board.)_

She is sweeping her right foot behind her left and bending her knees, lowering herself to the ground with her skirt spread out to the sides, her head bowed.

That's a curtsy. Wilson P. Higgsbury has never in his life been curtsied to.

He is at a loss for words.

"Your Majesty," she says. "Forgive me for my confusion."

"Oh no," he says, unable to stop the sputtering now, "I'm just- I'm a scientist. I'm from Massachusetts."

"Shall I call you Doctor, then?"

"I'm not a d-doctor." He tries to swallow. His throat is so dry. "Please. Just leave."

"Maybe you've forgotten... there's no way out from here."

"Of course there is! You've wanted to kill yourself for a long time, haven't you? Well-"

"Yes," she says, and there is an edge in her voice, "I have been tempted by death, and I've resisted. It has never been  _recommended_ to me before."

"Sometimes it's the right way out."

She is quiet for a moment, long enough for his mind to drift. It's spring, out there. It's raining. He's been watching the rain, why it rains, what it does. He thinks he's ready to make a small shift... just a little one... just nudge the rain, and see if...

"Sir-"

Wendy's still here. Right. "I have so much to do," he says. "You have to leave."

She's holding the rod over the base.

"No! Stupid girl! Get out!"

"That's rude," she says mildly.

"A pox on you!"

"Don't you know any stronger language?"

"Stronger language? You are thirteen years old!" She's had a birthday. She probably didn't notice.

"I see."

"Now put that down. I can talk to your parents, you know," he says. "I'll bring them here and they'll tan your hide."

"My parents wouldn't last long here," she says.

"Then I'll bring them  _back!_ Didn't know I could do that, did you? Huh?" He wants to grin, but can't somehow. Whatever. "Remember Wigfrid?"

"The Valkyrie? Yes, she felled a score of giants only to be swarmed by frogs and lose her life. It was a poor end to a promising heroine."

He tries to move his legs. Nothing doing. "I know something you don't know! I know all sorts of things you don't know!"

"And I suppose you'd like to tell me?"

He gets an impression that she is humoring him. "She's just an actress!"

"Yes, she spoke of intermissions..."

How did Wendy know that? "She's not dead!"

"Isn't she?"

"She's on a different island," Wilson says. He tilts his head and squints into the darkness. "But not for long! I built a door. A different door, I mean. You'll all be seeing her again real soon. No one ever leaves here, Wendy. That's why I'm going to make it so much better for all of you! I'm moving the islands together. It's slow, though. So I added doors. I did think of everything. Oh, you'll see." His voice breaks. His body is such a nuisance. "You can't see it yet... I hear you, you know! Maxwell is saying nasty things about me. He thinks I'm sitting here twiddling my thumbs but he has another thing coming."

"I believe you. You must be getting awfully tired," she says.

"Hmph! Tired? Science does not tire and neither will I."

"Your dedication is rare indeed. I assume you are also working through pain?"

"Pain is nothing besides progress," he said, appreciating his alliteration.

"A short respite will not lessen your dedication."

"How am I supposed to take a break when there's so much work to be done?"

"None of your work will be undone," she says.

He peers at her. She wants to take his place, that's what this is. "Put that rod away! You don't want to be here. It's no fun. And you can't help your sister. I tried. I thought of everything. I belong here."

"Don't the whispers seem rather cold? Aren't you hearing less than you would like?"

"But- but- no! Put that away!" He strains and tugs and cannot move and no one will remove this girl.

She sighs heavily. "Your turn has ended."

"No, no, no, no..."

She's done it; he is free, and he falls to the ground without the restraints holding him in place. His mind is going gray and dark already. There's nothing else to be done.

Oh, Wendy, Wendy...


	11. Checkmate; or, Walani Relates Her Tale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note, because Shipwrecked is still in early access and I don't know how many people have gotten it/unlocked the new characters: Walani is a new character from Shipwrecked; I didn't just make up a new character and throw her in. This time.

_G, C, E, A._

Walani thumbed through the notes again in reverse order.

_A, E, C, G._

Not bad for an instrument that’d been sitting around in an abandoned trunk floating on the sea for who knew how long.

It’d been a while but her fingers still remembered their places on the neck of the ukulele. She got to strumming.

The campfire was crackling and hot on her shins. By its light she could just see the silhouette of her new friend darting all over the beach.

Walani tried strumming in tune to Willow’s frantic movements, but the result was a little too manic for her tastes. She slowed down.

It was getting dark. Should she call Willow back?

The fire would bring her in.

And it did. Willow followed it like a tide, sitting close to it, building it up until it was a little too hot for comfort.

“Find anything to eat?” Walani asked.

“Just more snails. You could always go look.”

“Snails are good with me.” She dug her toes into the sand. Willow had not taken off her shoes. So far she never had. Of course, Walani had only known her a couple days. She seemed so tense, though.

Maybe a tune on the uke would cheer her up.

“Somewhere over the rainbow… way up high…”

“Never seen a rainbow here,” said Willow.

Walani rolled her eyes. “You wanna make a request then?”

“Hmmm. Nah. You play what you want, I guess. I’ll cook the snails.”

Walani started toying with an improvised uke version of Smells Like Teen Spirit. “Thanks for finding this,” she said.

“Yah-huh.”

With music, a campfire, beach sand, the sound of the waves, the smell of the sizzling limpets, it all seemed alright. This wasn’t such a bad place to be stuck. She could think of it like a long vacation. And she wasn’t even alone anymore.

Willow had a piece of paper in her hand and was musing over it.

Walani didn’t ask about it. Either Willow would share or she wouldn’t. That was how it went with her.

“So,” Willow said. She’d decided to share. “There’s a really big island…” She held up the piece of paper. It had a lot of little crossed-out circles on it and one big circle. “And there are other people on it. We’ve got a little camp.”

This was news. The music hesitated a moment before Walani shrugged it off and continued to strum, but more quietly. Willow must’ve been vetting her out these past couple days before deciding to spill the beans. That was reasonable. Stranger danger, and all. “Other people? How many?”

Willow hesitated. “Nine,” she said.

Nine. Well. It was better than being alone, that was for sure.

Willow stared into the fire. “It used to be ten,” she said. “That’s why I’m here. One of our guys went missing.”

Walani’s fingers paused on the strings. The sound of the last chord she’d played faded out. “I’m sorry.”

Willow shrugged and tossed her pigtails. “If he wants to run off and get lost that’s his problem.” But her eyes were bright.

All those bones everywhere. Had one set of them been Willow’s friend?

She remembered one evening when she’d gotten a little less than chill about being alone, and she’d bent one skeleton’s arm so that it was posthumously picking its nose. That wasn’t a super cool thing to have done. Those were people.

“One day I’m going to find the guy who brought us all here,” said Willow. “And he’ll be sorry.”

Walani thought again of the skeletons. “Count me in, sister.” She struck up a new tune, a jangly war tune.

Willow sat hunched over with her elbows on her knees, rubbing her hands together. “I’m going to smash his stupid face in.” She looked up. “How’d he get you?”

Ah, it was good to have an excuse to tell a story. Willow seemed skittish, and being open with stuff was the best way to earn her trust.

Walani toned down the uke. Story-backdrop music.

“So I’m between jobs. Got laid off.” She closed her eyes. She could picture it all clearly, in weird dreamlike colors. “I’m out with my board and the surf’s going off and…” She sighed. “I wish I could stay out there forever.

“So I’m in a lull, right, and I look up and there’s this dude on a board, sitting there in the water, came out of nowhere.

“And he’s all dressed to the nines in this three-piece suit. On his board. Like something out of a mobster movie, you know?”

Willow nodded. “Like he’s hot stuff.”

“Uh-huh. So he’s sitting there on the board, in a suit, in the ocean, and he waves to me. And I go ‘hang loose’ and he goes:

“’Nice day for this, isn’t it?’ And he had a little bit of a British accent, but it almost sounded fake. Like someone from an old movie.

“Anyway, I said ’You should have been here yesterday.’

“And he goes, ’It’s a shame you have to stop, isn’t it?’

“And I’m like ’You’re tellin’ me.’

“He says ’Well, I’ll let you in on a little secret,’ and he points out to sea. He says ‘Go that way. You won’t have to find a job and you’ll never have to come in from the ocean again.’

“And it sounds like baloney, but this guy showed up out of nowhere and he looks like a little leprechaun or something, so I’m like ‘Sure, dude.’ And I start paddling a little ways. To humor him.

“He starts kind of smirking.

“I get caught in an undertow. At least that’s what I thought happened. It felt like someone was pulling me under by the ankles. Maybe there was someone.

“Next thing I know, I’m here, and some mangy parrot is dissing me.”

Willow stared distantly into the fire. Walani had expected her to get angry, maybe, rail against the kidnapper, blow off a little steam. But she looked kind of defeated.

“You called him little? He was short?”

“Yeah.”

“What did he look like?” Willow asked.

Walani could see his face in her mind’s eye clear as day. She took a moment to think of how to describe it, strumming idly on the uke.

She said: “He was a white guy… He had kind of a bummed out look. Looked super tired. Bags under his eyes. Dark eyes, I think. He had this wild hair. Looked like maybe he’d been surfing into the wind… but y’know, I don’t think he really surfs.”

Willow looked at her map again. She tipped it into the fire and brushed her hands together like she was cleaning dust off them.

“I had a different guy,” she said.


	12. Strangers in the Woods; or, Woodie Meets Wigfrid And Wes But Separately On Seperate Occasions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I am looking through computer files and it turns out I have a bunch of little stories that never got crossposted here from other sites. Some of them were incomplete and I can't find the full versions so I had to do a little bit of patchwork, so on the off chance you actually read these when they were first posted, yes they are a bit different now.
> 
> My goal is to get to fifty stories in this collection (though I don't expect to meet that goal) so I'm including these here- but to be perfectly honest, they're not the greatest, which is why I'm throwing them all up at once on a Tuesday night. Don't expect much.
> 
> This first story was written in response to a prompt on Tumblr a million years ago. The mere fact that it was a Tumblr prompt should give you an idea of the quality.

_Finally alone!_ Lucy sighed.

Woodie gently rubbed the flat of her blade against his cheek. Everyone back at camp was nice enough in their own way, excepting maybe WX-78, who had probably committed at least one murder, but it was nice to be alone. Out here in the shade and the smell of the trees, where he could talk to Lucy.

"Nice day, eh?" he said now.

_Oh, yes!_

Woodie took a deep lungful of fresh air that did not have even the slightest hint of Wolfgang on it. What a great day…

A shadow flitted over his head. He pulled back.

Something fell at his feet.

_Woodie!_

It was a spear, with bits of blood and hair on it. What hoser had followed them?

"Haaaah!"

He jumped back.

She crashed out of the bushes. Some kind of wild woman. He backed up.

She stared at him. "Hail! Friend!" She ripped the spear out of the ground and held it above her head. "Well met!"

They were in the middle of nowhere, on a deserted island. Why couldn't Woodie and Lucy be alone for a second?

It never occurred to Woodie that the newcomer might be dangerous. She seemed too happy. But when she walked up to the camp, it occurred to everyone else.

Wilson dropped his drumstick into the fire and snatched up his spear, grabbing it by the wrong end and immediately dropping it again. Willow stood up and flicked on her lighter. Wickerbottom looked serene, but she swapped the normal book on her lap for a more ominous one.

"Ah! A camp full of warriors!" the stranger said. "Good!"

It would be three weeks before anyone found out she was an actress.

\---

The fear of being disturbed had been forgotten now. Camp was quiet these days and no one looked askance if someone vanished for a few hours. In fact, Wendy had been missing for a few days now on an extended nature walk.

Woodie hesitated. The trees up ahead were thin, and he could see prairie through them. He hadn't wanted to come here, he must have taken the wrong path. He turned-

_Woodie, wait._

Lucy had an air of hushed alarm. Woodie turned.

There was a figure on the horizon, too tall to be Wendy and too slow and bumbling to be Wigfrid. Everyone else should have been back the other direction.

"Hello!" Woodie called.

The figure waved.

Woodie took a few steps closer. Could it be? It was true that he had never gotten along with Wilson as well as he had with the others, but he'd never wanted the funny little man to vanish. And some of the others were outright depressed over him. It would be good to see him back.

"Get over here, you hoser!" he called. "Where've you been, eh?"

 _I think that's someone new,_ Lucy said.

"What's someone new doing here?"

Woodie could see the person better now. He was indeed someone new. Wearing face makeup.

Woodie paused. The man came closer. He looked Woodie over and silently posed in imitation of him.

 _It's a mime,_ Lucy said.

"Why?"

_I don't know. He's not any weirder than a talking axe._

The mime tilted his head and pouted his lips.

"Yes he is," Woodie said. "I- I don't like this at all."

The mime drooped in sorrow.

Woodie held up his hands. "I'm sorry! Sorry!"

The mime clapped and smiled.

Wickerbottom would know what to do with this…

\--  
Wickerbottom did not know what to do with this.

"He is a performance artist," she said.

"And where'd he come from, eh?" Woodie's hands were trembling.

Wickerbottom adjusted her glasses, her mouth screwing up at one end. "Perhaps he will tell us."

The mime smiled at both of them and did not speak.

"I believe he is a silent performer," she said.

The mime wandered off into the main camp. Well, it looked like they had a mime now.

Nothing Woodie could do about that now, really.


	13. A Broken Heart; or, Absolutely absurd amounts of melodrama

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The run of cross-posting spam continues! Here, a melodramatic foray into melodrama! I think this is an earlier draft than the one I posted to fanfiction.net back when I was still using that rotten site, but it looks okay to me. I think? I have no desire to put more work into this story.

Maybe it was carelessness. Maybe it was stubbornness. Maybe he just didn't care what she thought. Whatever the reason, no matter what anyone told him, Wilson would not. Stop. Dying.

Of course some of it wasn't his fault. Some of it wasn't anyone's fault- except Maxwell's. But sometimes she was sure he just wasn't paying attention. And she knew. She knew that once he'd asked Wendy to kill him.

She couldn't deny that they worked. The amulets, the statues, the weird rocks. They worked. And he always came back himself. Woozy, maybe, crabby, maybe, but he always recovered. And he was still Wilson. Whatever made him Wilson stayed with him. 

But it couldn't be good for him. It wasn't natural. 

Sometimes she thought he was addicted to it. Addicted to dying! What a weird thought.

It sure was a rush, though. And the lightning was very nice.

Willow sat up, sneezing. Something had flown at her face, and then the lightning had hit. And now she was here. The pig heads were very smelly, even though smells didn't carry well in this dreadful cold. Her head hurt, and the whole world seemed as if something nasty was showing through underneath it. She hated that feeling.

Webber was there waiting for her with an armful of warm clothes. "Miss Willow! You're back!"

She pulled on the clothes. He'd brought all of her things. "Thank you!" 

Webber stared up at her, all eight of his eyes open wide and round underneath a fluffy beefalo hat. "Miss Willow, come quick! We need you!"

It was hard to know what he meant by 'we'. "Just show me where to go," she said.

He took her hand in a rough, coarsely hairy little claw and pulled her down the path. "It's bad," he said, as his breath made a little cloud in the air. Those little clouds were the only thing she liked about winter. They looked like tiny soft smoke. They made her imagine that everyone had a fire inside them. 

"Do I need a spear?"

"I don't… think so. Just you. He needs you badly, miss."

He? Willow didn't think 'he' meant the spider. "What did he do?"

"I think you'd better see for yourself!"

They came over a low ridge and were at the place where Willow had died. She saw a small empty expanse of snow, dotted here and there with brown dried blood. Two figures stood out dark against the snow. One of them was sitting on the ground, holding a jumble of shapes.

"Mr. Higgsbury," the other said, and it was through her crisp old voice that Willow recognized Wickerbottom, because she was too swaddled to be identifiable, "will you please put down that dirty old skeleton!"

Wilson had Willow's old skeleton. He was holding it close. Ew, was he going to study it or something? 

No, he was just holding it. Something wasn't right.

"Where's her lighter?" He dug in the snow with his hand. "She must want it. I can't believe I lost it!"

"That is not Willow," Wickerbottom said. "That is only the remains of her previous form. You must put it down and return to camp. You'll freeze otherwise."

Wilson reached up to scrub at his hair, baring his teeth. He hugged the skeleton close to his body. "I need her lighter! It's her lucky lighter! Either help me or go away!"

The shocked trance Willow had fallen into suddenly broke. "I have it!" She pulled out the lighter.

Wickerbottom looked up. "Thank goodness it's you. I've tried to tell him, dear, but I'm afraid he's not listening."

Wilson looked up at her. His eyes went through her, he didn't understand. She went closer. He stared at the lighter.

She touched his shoulder. He pulled away. 

"It's me," she said, forcing down the rising panic. "You dork! Who else would have my lucky lighter?"

His eyes fixed on hers then, and he went for her.

He was so glad to see her that he bowled her over in the snow. All the clinging he'd been doing on that skeleton was on her neck now. 

"Wilson! You're freezing," she said.

He made a distinct sputtering sound and his body shuddered.

She put her arms around him, though he was cold. She had to. "Don't get all sappy! I was just at the touch stone. You know what those are…" 

He shuddered again. "Willow! Is- is it really you?"

"Yes!" She pulled away to look at his face. He looked muddled. "What's gotten into you? You know how all this stuff works!"

"You had no pulse and you didn't respond to resuscitation... and then your flesh melted off of your bones." His voice cracked.

She had to chew on that for a minute. "I'm okay now, though… thanks to you… because you found that stone in the first place."

"Did I?"

She didn't remember whether he had or not. "You did! You saved me. So… don't feel bad or anything. I'm right here."

"Oh." He pulled back and rubbed his temples. "I did not save you. You died in my arms and it was awful. I'm cold…"

"Come here." She put her arm around his shoulders. "I'll warm you up. With a nice fire."

Boy did she ever need a fire.

\---

She held his hand, because he still seemed shaken up.

"Of course you came back," he said. "I knew there were touch stones. I should have known…" 

"Hey. It's fine. It could happen to anyone." She stoked the fire and held her hand over the tips of the flames. When it was this cold out she could stand in the fire pit and not overheat. Maybe she'd do that after Wilson went in his tent to sleep.

He didn't seem to want to leave her. "I couldn't think at all," he said.

It had seemed like no big deal at all to her when it happened. Was that why Wilson never listened when they told him to be more careful? Willow knew that it was… weird, at best, when Wilson came back. But when it was her, it was so fast. At least, it had been fast this time. If Willow had known it was coming she might feel differently.

He looked down at the ground. 

She squeezed his hand. "All's well that ends well, so just enjoy the fire."

He pulled something out of his pocket and looked at it. 

"What's that?"

"It's a tusk. It was a walrus that killed you."

"Did you get him?"

His voice had no emotion. "Yes. I did." 

"Good. I wish I'd done it." 

Wilson turned the tusk over in his hand, looking it over. "I want to go home. I'm tired of ridiculous monsters."

"I hear you there."

"Walruses. Dogs. Baby walruses. I'm sick of all of it. I want a roof."

"Uh huh. Baby walruses?"

He sighed. He squeezed her hand and inched a little closer to her. He'd never said he wanted to go home before, she realized. He'd complained about the weather, or the bugs, or the food (or lack of food), but he'd never actually said he wanted to go home before. "Are you okay?"

He looked her over. "Are you?"

"Yes, I'm fine."

"Then I'm okay."

This man had died and come back like thirty times, and she'd seen him kill all kinds of animals without flinching. He cracked jokes at ghosts and skeletons and dug up graves. He wasn't weird about death. He maybe wasn't weird enough about death.

So it was her. 

Willow had run away once when she was little. She stayed away until she was cold and hungry enough to go back, and no one had noticed she was gone. After that, she only came back to get food when she couldn't find food anywhere else.

"How long did you just sit in the snow with my old bones?"

"I don't know."

She stayed quiet for a few minutes, watching the fire. "I don't like it when you die either, you know."

He sniffled.

"That's why we ask you to be careful," she said. "We like you."

"I'm... sorry."

"It's okay."

And they sat together until morning.


	14. Scientific Limits; or, Some Things Cannot Be Fixed and One Of Those Things is Spiders

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The crossposting spam continues! I could have sworn this was also written in response to a prompt, but the original post says nothing about a prompt. Maybe someone sent me the idea and I just stole it without credit! I have no idea! I have no idea what is even going on in this story. It's quite short.

Webber is sitting in his nest with his back against the spider hive. He looks so curled up and sad. Willow stands just off of the webbing- she doesn’t want to play with Webber’s friends- and calls to him. He looks up. Oh no, now that she can see his face he looks even sadder…

“What’s going on?” she says.

“We’re just having a think,” he says. There’s something in his hand, looks like a cookie.

“Ooh, are there cookies?”

“This is the last one. I’m sorry.”

“Aw. That’s all right.” There are bandages on his arm. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” he says. But he still seems so sad.

“Did something happen?”

Webber hesitates and glances unmistakably in the direction of Wilson’s tent before looking at the ground. “No, nothing happened.”

Willow makes sure not to change her expression. It’s no secret that Wilson is _really_ curious about how Webber’s spider-person body works. He wouldn’t _do_ anything, though, right?

The bandages look too neat for Webber to have put them there himself.

“Enjoy your cookie,” she says, and she walks into the tent.

She was hoping to surprise Wilson in case he was going to be squirrelly about anything. He’s sitting hunched up against the wall of the tent with something pressed to his face. Looks like a hankie. It better not be. His hankie got really gross forever ago and she told him to burn it.

“Oh, Willow,” he says in a muffled voice.

She sits down next to him. There is a sharp tool of some kind lying on the floor. It looks like Wilson was trying to make a scalpel out of flint. There are cookie crumbs all over.

“Why is Webber sad?” she asks. “How did he get hurt?” Wilson wouldn’t do anything really bad, right? So he’ll tell her what happened, if he knows.

Wilson swallows hard. That is a hankie over his face. She thought he’d gotten rid of that old thing.

He’s not telling her anything. Okay. She’ll wait.

She waits for quite a while before he speaks.

“Do you know the skin has three layers?”

“Uh huh?” she says.

He holds up his hand to show her. “You see the epidermis. Under that is the dermis. Under that is the hypodermis.”

“Uh huh?”

“They’re all on top of each other.” He holds up three fingers next to each other. “But on Webber, it’s as if…”

He crosses his fingers. 

Willow’s not sure what that means, but she has a bad feeling about it. “I see…”  And how does he know this?

Wilson carefully presses his hankie to one eye and then the other. He’s going to get an infection that way, it’s so gross. “He’s ten years old…”

“What were you trying to do, Wilson?”

“I thought I could simply cut him out of there. I was wrong!”

Willow threads one pigtail through her fingers. Phew. Everything makes sense now. 

She’s not surprised that that didn’t work, really, but it is sad. “Poor Webber. We should do something nice for him.”

And of course Wilson wasn’t doing anything awful. He’s not heartless or anything. 

“I need to do more experiments. There’s a way to get him out of there. I’m sure of it.” He wrings the hankie in his hands. She tries to tug it away. “What are you doing?”

“This thing is nasty and you keep putting it on your face!”

“No it isn’t. It’s not the other one. Webber gave me this. It’s silk.” Wilson looks down at it for a moment and then presses it over his eyes with a squeaky choking noise.

Willow looks down at her fingers and wiggles them. Epidermis. Dermis. Hypodermis… crossed fingers?

Poor Webber…


	15. Old Age; or, A Librarian In Her Native Environment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The last of the crossposting for tonight. I have nothing to say about this one.
> 
> Original author's note: "a\n: Toying with the theory floating around that Don't Starve player characters were yanked from different eras."
> 
> note from the future: I later found out that this is not a thing, after producing a lot of awkward fic based around the concept, of which this is the most boring. Sorry.

Calliope had inadvertently left the young woman waiting. Customer service was not her preferred task as a librarian. She did enjoy speaking to patrons and aiding them in their search for the information they sought, but she did not enjoy it as much as she enjoyed simply handling the books, and she was prone to become absorbed in the latter and neglect the former. It was a failing of hers she had pledged to diminish and eventually eradicate.

She stepped up to the desk. "Hello. How may I help you today?"

The young woman looked up with an air of faint surprise, indicating that she had been left alone long enough to become lost in thought. If only Calliope had the wherewithal to hire more staff. Work would be more efficiently done if another person were on staff who took naturally to interaction with patrons.

"I would like to know where your maps and atlases are, please," the stranger said. From her appearance Calliope estimated that the woman was fifteen to twenty years younger than herself. The disposition of the stranger was calm and distracted. 

There were no other patrons in the building at the moment and the maps were in a tucked away corner. "I will lead you to them myself," Calliope decided, stepping out from behind the desk. 

"I'm primarily interested in maps that focus on the ocean," the stranger said. "I'm attempting to find an island."

"Which ocean? Atlantic, Pacific, Indian or Artic?"

"I'm not sure. The winters were cold there and the summers were terribly hot." The young woman had an American accent. New England, possibly. 

They had reached the maps. As this young woman seemed to be suffering from some confusion and there were still as yet no other patrons who appeared to need help, Calliope decided she would stay and assist. "Is this an island you visited?"

"Yes, a long time ago. Actually I lived there… we stayed in a space with no roof… we slept in tents." She laughed, somewhat self-consciously. "We had floorboards, but no roof. But I was young. Maybe I don't remember it right."

"If this island was temperate, we can rule out several island systems in the Pacific. Do you recall what length the seasons were?"

She shook her head. 

"I don't suppose you recall a name of the island."

"I don't, unfortunately."

Calliope selected an atlas of the oceans. "I would recommend that you do not begin your search in the Arctic Ocean, as you describe experiencing hot summers. Islands with equatorial locations are also unlikely."

"Thank you." She took the book from Calliope 's hands and reached up to tuck a curl behind her ear. Her hair was black and seemed to be attempting to escape from its owner's head in every direction, heedless of an attempt to cut it short and restrain it with a bandana. It made Calliope unduly conscious of her own hair, which though long and unfortunately ginger was quite neat and tidy. 

"If you wish to take the book home you must apply for a library card," Calliope said.

"Ah, I won't be taking it home. I'm only in Scotland for a week."

"In that case, you may return it to the reference desk. Good luck." 

Upon which Calliope returned herself to the reference desk.  
\---  
The young woman had an air of tragedy when she returned to the reference desk with an armful of atlases.

"You were unsuccessful?" Calliope guessed.

"Nothing," she sighed, setting the stack of books down on the desk. "Is there a sort of temporary library card?"

"I don't believe so, but as there's hardly any call for them, I would be able to reserve these books at my desk so that you could return again to study them. May I ask why you want to find this island so badly?"

"I was born there."

"Perhaps your parents can tell you where it is," said Calliope. Immediately she realized that this course of action was so obvious that the young lady would have already attempted it, unless she were estranged from her parents or they had perished. What a regrettable thing to have said.

But the girl showed no signs of distress. "They don't know where it is either," she sighed. "They were shipwrecked and made a daring escape somehow. But they don't ever seem to want to talk about it! I suppose they were a bit traumatized by it all, poor dears." She spoke with an air of pitying affection, as if she were the parent. "But I would like to find that island." Her eyes were bright. "There were amazing things there."

"I see. I wish you luck," said Calliope, wondering what on Earth could be so traumatizing as to make parents refuse to disclose details to a child about the place of her birth. 

The young woman scowled suddenly. Her glowering eyebrows and pouting mouth drawn up under a sharp, ever-so-slightly hooked nose sparked an odd flash of _deja vu,_ although Calliope had never seen this person before and did not associate with people who pouted. 

She was looking at Calliope's nameplate, which of course read Miss Wickerbottom. "Your name is Wickerbottom?"

"Indeed." It did not exactly match her given name- bestowed by a mother who had been taken in by Greek myth- but it was sturdy and fitting, a name that had served Calliope well. Despite the occasional insulting remark from one who was lacking in maturity and intelligence. 

The young woman tapped her chin. "Do you know anyone named Higgsbury?"

"I do not." She didn't believe she'd even heard the name before, despite having a general knowledge of geneaology. Perhaps it was a corruption of 'Hicksbury', 'Hixberry' or something of the sort.

"Oh," she sighed. "I thought you might know my parents… we knew a lady named Wickerbottom." She laughed and averted her eyes. "You can't be her anyway. She was rather old. She was on the island too. She used to read to me. I wish I could find her again, as a matter of fact…"

"Was there any news coverage of this event?" A traumatized couple, their tender child and an elderly woman escaping an island. It did sound like an interesting story, one Calliope would endeavor to read about. 

"No." She was scowling again, and again Calliope had a faint sense of knowing that scowl although she did not. "But I know all of it happened, whether I can find the place or not. My parents kept things. I'll find it eventually."

"I would be quite happy to pass along any information I uncover in this matter," Calliope said.

She found herself fixed by a rather intent gaze. "You would?"

"Certainly. Knowledge should be freely given."

"I'll give you my address," she said, "and I'll be back for those books."

Calliope produced paper and a pen and the young woman wrote down her address. Her tongue protruded from the corner of her mouth as she wrote with an almost comical intensity, and that too seemed familiar. 

"All right, I have to leave," she said. Her manner was suddenly apologetic. "Oh dear, I was supposed to leave an hour ago. We're seeing a fireworks show tonight! I'll be back tomorrow. Thank you for your help."

"It is my duty."

The young woman left the building. Calliope watched her leave and noticed her encountering a rather tall, well-dressed gentleman just outside the door.

The man greeted the girl, who reacted in surprise, but accompanied him away as if she knew him.

Calliope picked up the card upon which the young woman had written her name and address. Everything on it was scratched out.


	16. Freakin' Vampires

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: This is absolutely terrible and I don't want to hear about it.

Willow has done this so many times that it's second nature now. She slides across the wooden floor as silently as her prey. She tightens her grip on the stake and eases open the coffin.

The cold, pale creature inside stirs not at all. His hands are folded neatly over his chest.

She reaches out and touches the tip of his nose. He starts and gasps. “What?" He sees the stake and flattens himself to the bottom of his coffin. "Who- Willow!”

She giggles.

“Do you mind?” he sputters.

She puts the stake away. What is that thing tucked neatly between his side and the wall of the coffin? Is that a teddy?

He stuffs it out of sight. Hey, there's no shame in having a teddy. Willow sleeps with one too.

“You're early!” he says.

“No, you slept in,” she says. "It's after ten. Up up up!" The sun has been down for hours. He'd be perfectly safe even if his windows weren't boarded up.

She still thinks he'd be even safer in the basement, but, well, he likes it up here. Anyway, he has no one to blame but himself if she woke him up!

He rubs his eyes. “I was up all day. I'm tired.”

Whose fault is that? “New experiment?”

“Yes… too complicated to explain.” So it's not going well. Otherwise, he'd explain it.

He holds out his hand to her with a self-conscious grimace. She helps him up out of the coffin. By now, she doesn't show her disgust at how bitterly cold he is. She hopes she doesn't, anyway.

Wilson sits on the edge of the coffin and swings his legs back and forth. He's not standing up.

He's such a dumb baby. He probably forgot to eat again.

She pulls a blood box out of her pocket. It's not really blood inside, it's some mostly-fake mix of the stuff that's in blood, but everyone calls it a blood box.

There's a straw stuck to the back of it but like most of his kind Wilson prefers to bite through the cardboard and suck out the juice through his fangs instead. Wendy says that way is more satisfying. Like sucking the guts out of a mouse.

She sits down next to him, a little closer than she would like to. He radiates cold. Not so much that most people would notice, but she notices these things.

“Have you really found Maxwell?” he says, after he stops slurping.

Wilson's lair is full of old junk. He's been residing here since 1919. For part of that time he was human and collecting junk. He hasn't gotten rid of any of it. He's gotten new things- computers, mostly- but never cleared out anything. She likes the little heat stove, although he never burns anything in it. He doesn't need to.

"I found Maxwell," she confirms.

"And you... can't bring him here?"

"Nope."

Wilson runs the tip of his tongue over his lips. Maybe he's tasting vengeance- no, probably just juice.

"Why can't he come here?" he asks.

"Because he's a serial infecter. If you want to see him, you're coming to HQ!" she says.

"Oh, I'm... not sure about that," he mutters, fumbling with the sleeves of his suit jacket. "I am a dangerous monster of the night. I'm not sure I should leave my house."

It'll probably hurt his feelings for real if she laughs at him so she bites her tongue really hard. Wilson, a dangerous monster of the night! He's a category 1 vampire because there's no category lower than 1. 

"It'll be okay! I'll go with you." She shows him her badge, in case he forgot. "I'm an officer. I'm qualified." That's why she can come talk to him alone. 

Wilson taps his chin and frowns. "I think maybe I'd better stay here. I have work to do..."

No more Miss Nice Willow. "Nope! You're coming back to HQ tonight."

"But-"

"Butts are for kicking." She gets to her feet. "You have to come with me. You're an important witness. You don't want Maxwell to go free, do you?"

"No!"

"Then come with me." She takes his hand and gently but firmly helps him upright. He wobbles a little. As she suspected, he's not eating enough.

\---

Wilson was discovered when a group of kids broke into his house one Halloween in 1926. They found him dormant and huddled under his desk where he must have crawled to pass out from hunger. (It's not an uncommon reaction to turning. People will be so repulsed by the thought of drinking blood that they just won't do it unless coaxed or forced.)

Back then, there wasn't much in the way of rehabilitation or contact so his house was roped off and he was left there to hibernate and occasionally be poked with sticks by curious kids. Vampire lairs don't fall apart, so his house stayed the way it was.

In the 1970s, quarantine cases began to be reevaluated, but Wilson was still deemed too unimportant to wake up. It wasn't until 1996 that someone got around to realizing that there was no information on who had turned him- and he was small and easy to handle.

He was pulled out from under the desk, hospitalized and questioned. He'd been turned by an old vampire named Maxwell, a serial infecter involved in many cases and suspected in others.

It was immediately obvious that Wilson was not dangerous, so after a few weeks of observation he was allowed to return home. Willow was assigned to him in 2010 because he was meek and she was new. She checked in on him once a week, brought him legally approved food and made sure he wasn't turning anyone or trying to start a nest. He never did anything but putter around his attic and hibernate for days at a time. And buy gadgets.

Now he stops in his doorway, blinking at the moonlight. 

"You don't need permission to leave a house," she said.

"It's bright!"

Bright? It's moonlight! That's not bright!

"I don't need to go out," he says, shuffling backwards. 

She takes his hand. "Come on."

"I don't know."

"Come. ON."

He takes a step outside, swallowing.

The car is waiting for them. 

She opens the passenger door and Wilson gets in the seat. His eyes light up. "What does this do?" He starts opening the glove department. "What a slick automobile."

She puts it in reverse.

"Ooh!" Wilson bounces slightly in his seat and looks around, bright-eyed. He's forgotten to be scared. It's like waving keys in front of a baby's face.

The last time he saw a modern-day car was in the 90s. And he was probably on tranquilizers then.

Tranquilizers... they'd be the usual protocol for taking an unlicensed, non-socialized vampire out of his house. Willow might get in a little bit of trouble for not using them, but she'll risk it.

She could have put some in his blood box and he would never have noticed, but that would seem so wrong.

\---

HQ really is bright. They have to keep it that way, for safety reasons. Willow keeps some sunglasses in her glove box for her non-human contacts. Wilson looks silly in them.

She gets out of the car, all but alone in the parking level (budget cuts), and opens his door for him.

He holds his hand out. She shakes her head.

He slowly withdraws his hand, eyebrows furrowing. 

"It's against the rules," she explains. "I can't touch you once we're in here." She shouldn't do it when they're alone, either- especially not then- but she trusts him. But if others see... "I could get fired. And you can't touch me. Not at all."

"Not at all?"

"Not at all! Especially not on the hand. And my hands can't be near your face." She could definitely get fired if anyone finds out that she touched the tip of his nose earlier. Her wrist was close to his mouth.

Wilson looks confused, but then he looks down at his hand and realization dawns. The usual idea is that vampires bite people on the neck- that's more gruesome and sexy- and that does happen, but nine out of ten times the vampire will bite into the veins of the wrist instead. They're easier to get to. A vampire offers a friendly handshake, or attacks and lets their victim try to push them away...

Wilson was bitten through his left hand when he was turned.

"But I wouldn't do that," he says.

"Rules are rules. You could get arrested if they think you're trying to get to my veins."

"Oh. Um. All right, then."

He keeps very close to her as she leads him down the hallway. He's biting his lip.

"Try not to bite your lip."

"What? Oh. Sorry."

"It shows your fangs," she says. "It can be an attack sign."

"Oh."

"I know you're just nervous, but you still can't do that in here, okay?"

"Okay."

She leads him to the elevator. He darts ahead and tries to open the door for her. 

"It's DNA-locked," she explains as he fruitlessly tugs on the doors. Not that he knows to push the buttons anyway.

He turns to look at her. "What's DNA? I keep seeing references to it when I try to study things, but..."

Oh boy. Wilson needs to learn to use Google. "DNA is the hereditary material. Weren't you a doctor? You have a skeleton."

"Hereditary?"

Willow's no expert on DNA. She's not going to be able to tell him as much as he wants to know. "It's super scientific. You should read about it when you get home." She calls the elevator. "The way it works in the lock is that... see, your DNA isn't like anyone else's in the world, so the lock can read it and know it's you and whether or not you're allowed to get in. Like fingerprints. You know about fingerprints, right?"

"Yes." Wilson gingerly touches the buttons as they wait for the elevator. They beep their little 'not allowed' tone. "This machine is incredible."

Willow knows how this one works. "It's a car on a big cable that moves up and down. They had elevators in 1920, didn't they?"

"Oh, yes. Just not like this." He caresses the metal wall. "It's so smooth..."

Why isn't he out researching the future if he's so interested in this stuff? Is he that afraid of leaving his house? 

Maybe someone else should be checking on him besides just her. She'll ask around about that. 

Wilson seems calmer when they are in the enclosed elevator together, though he's still nibbling his lip. When he notices her looking at him, he stops. "Who are we going to talk to?"

Willow's not a top guy, so she can't be entirely sure. She knows there won't be a ton of security around for a category 1, she's been cleared to take Wilson here by herself and all. If they're going to see Maxwell- and she doesn't know whether they will or not- he'll have a lot of security on him. 

"It kind of depends," she says. "I know Chief Wickerbottom will be there."

"Will there be lots of people?"

"I don't know. I told them to give you some space, but there's only so much I can do. I'm not in charge. Yet."

Wilson nods and swallows and fidgets. 

The elevator opens. Willow steps forward. Wilson does not. 

"Come on," she says. 

He shuffles along behind her.

At the end of the hallway, Wickerbottom is waiting with two armed guards on each side of the window to Maxwell's containment area. Only two. Good.

Willow stops. "Put on that mask I gave you. They have garlic around his cell."

Wilson puts it on. She leads him down the hall.

"Mr. Higgsbury," says Wickerbottom with a slight nod. "Thank you for your assistance in this matter."

"Oh, er... yes... you're welcome," he fidgets.

"This will take only a moment. Please look into that room," she gestures towards the viewing window with her head, "and tell us whether or not the man inside is the man who turned you."

Wilson creeps to the window, shying away from the guards as much as he can. He has to stand on tiptoe to get a really good look. "Oh, yes," he says, low. "That's him. Maxwell."

He stands and looks for a few minutes. What's he thinking? Looking in there at the guy who froze him in time forever. The guy who made him not human anymore. The thought of it never fails to make WIllow shudder. That's why she started this job in the first place. Some people have forgotten why they do the job but Willow never has.

Wilson continues to gaze at Maxwell- and then he hisses. Once. Sharply. It is the first time she's ever heard or seen him threaten aggression.

Instantly one of the guards has him by the wrist.

"I'm sorry," Wilson says. "I was caught up in the moment. I'm not going to attack anyone."

"I believe that is enough for today, Mr. Higgsbury." Wickerbottom sounds slightly frosty. "Agent Wolfgang will arrive shortly to help Agent Willow take you back to your nest."

"It's not a nest, it's just a rather cluttery attic," Wilson grouses. "I'm not a rat. Are you going to put a stake through his heart?"

"Oh, no, nothing so violent," says Wickerbottom. "We'll put him underneath an ultraviolet lamp, and he will become dust."

Wilson nods and looks back at the viewing window, though he can't see through it from where he's held by the guard. "Good, good..." His eyes are distant. Calculating.

Willow could protest and say another agent's not needed, especially not a musclebound one like Wolfgang. But she's done the job long enough.

You can never  _really_ trust a vampire. Even if you want to.


	17. Starvation; or, The Scientist Is More Desperate For Human Affection Than He Wishes He Was

**In Which Mr. Wilson P. Higgsbury Does Not Appear To Be Terribly Useful To His Dearest Companion**

 

A berry bush? A berry bush!

He stumbled towards it. There was no red on the bush. There were no berries on it.

He looked up. A few feet away a big fat turkey was pecking at another bush. It had stolen the berries! It was stealing _more_ berries as he watched it!

“Ohhh- _no!_ You stupid-“ Wilson reached for the most vile words he knew. “Blasted- evil-“ He needed worse words! His time in college had been wasted!

He didn’t need swears! He needed _food!_

He was going to run and catch the bird- beat the stuffing out of it- but somehow he was on the ground on his knees instead- he must have tripped. Everything seesawed when he tried to get up. It hurt. It felt as if his body was eating itself from the inside. It probably was!

Must stay clear-headed… must think of how to get food. That turkey was right there, just within reach, but he couldn’t quite seem to… get up and go for it, he was gasping for breath and couldn’t move. So he was too far gone to get food now. He was going to starve to death. He would starve to death, and Maxwell would watch the whole time. And that’d be it. Gone, no more, bye-bye. And Maxwell would laugh at him, too. Jerk!

Footsteps. Pounding footsteps. The woman. Willow. Willow was a red blur, and the turkey was a brown blur.

Willow was chasing the turkey. And now she was coming back…

Her arm was around his shoulder.

“You okay?” she asked.

 “I- I-“ He didn’t even know what he was trying to say. His voice box was stuck and skipping like a record.

“That’s all right,” she said. “I got that bad old bird and I’m going to cook him over a nice fire. Okay? We’ll be fine!”

There would be food? Real food? Meat?

“Yes- fine,” he managed to say.

Why, she’d probably saved his life. He hadn’t known her even a week yet. She’d saved his life. Of course, she needed food too. But she didn’t have to share. He hadn’t done anything for her yet. It had never even crossed his mind that she might help him…

She patted his shoulder. It had been almost a year since he had been touched by anyone.

\---

_Sixth day of second summer_

_I write this after a day of mining. We collected lots of_

Wilson stopped there, tapping the tip of the charcoal wedge against the page. He bit his lip.

Restraint… restraint was the key… he couldn’t just break off every time something threatened his concentration if he ever wanted to get anything done!

He was out of restraint. He tossed down the piece of charcoal and crunched up, scratching his scalp with both hands.

Wolfgang looked at him with curiosity. Wilson pointedly ignored him.

All right! A few brief seconds of relief. He picked up the charcoal.

_gold with which I plan to_

And his seconds of relief had run out. He dropped the charcoal again for another round of scratching.

“Small man is itchy?” Wolfgang asked.

“No, I just find this entertaining,” said Wilson.

Wolfgang looked dubious.

“It’s a joke,” Wilson muttered. Not a funny joke, really, just a bitter one…

He looked down at his journal page.

He’d only written a sentence and a half in five minutes! He’d been able to ignore the itching while they were mining, because he’d been moving around and the heat was worse than the itching. Now that he was still and the night was cool and the blue flames refreshing- and Willow had made a quick foray out on her own, leaving him alone with Wolfgang, who was not in the mood for much conversation- there was only itching.

He ran his fingers through his hair. What was so unbearably itchy-crawly up there anyway?

Crawly? Crawling. There was crawling under his fingertips as well as in his scalp.

Bugs?

_Bugs!_

He pulled his hand away.

“What’s up?”

He jumped. Willow had appeared just outside the firelight. He identified the spark of light from her lighter before he saw her face.

“Nothing!” he said. “I’m just writing.” She could never know. It was too disgusting. Blood was fine. Excrement, fine. Useful, even. Vomit, fine. Bugs, not fine. Bugs, revolting. “Nothing’s up!”

“Small man was scratching head a lot,” said Wolfgang.

“No moreso than usual,” Wilson squeaked.

“What do you even write in these?” Willow asked, pulling down the corner of his sheet of papyrus to look at the writing. “Huh.”

“I just started,” he said.

“Nap time is now!” Wolfgang announced. “Who will watch first?”

“Oh, I guess I’ll do it,” Willow said. “I’m up anyway.”

“I can take first watch,” said Wilson. He doubted he would be able to sleep knowing that there were bugs feeding on his scalp, even if he could tolerate the itching, which he couldn’t.

“But I’m already up,” said Willow.

If he pressed too hard she would suspect something. He never volunteered to take first watch. “Hmm, all right.”

Wilson pulled out his straw roll. Wolfgang had already lain down.

He spread the mat out carefully on the rock and curled up on it with his back to the fire.

Now it was just him and the cool flames on his back and the incessant _bug itching_ of _gross bugs_ on his _head._ He bit down on his lip to distract himself. It didn’t help a whole lot.

It was a few minutes later- or maybe an eternity- of Wolfgang snoring and crickets chirping and itching itching itching when Willow said in a low tone: “Hey, what’s up?”

“Mm?”

“Looks like you can’t sleep.”

“Oh, me? No, not at all! I just…” He trailed off, realizing that sometimes when it was cold they sat very close together, and what if the bugs went to Willow?

Of course they wouldn’t be cuddling for warmth in the middle of summer, but… he had to warn her. What if she decided to borrow one of his hats without asking, as she sometimes did? She’d get infested! “Is Wolfgang asleep?”

“Can’t you hear him?” The snores were legendary.

Wilson took a deep breath. “I… might…”

He couldn’t say it. It was too gross! How many indignities could one man suffer? Hmm? There was a limit somewhere, surely?

“You might what?” He flinched at the concern in her voice. “Are you sick?”

“No.” He sighed. It would be appallingly selfish not to tell her what was going on if her well-being was at stake. Even if it meant she denounced him as unclean for a while… “I just… might maybe have lice…”

“I can’t hear you,” said Willow.

He sat up. “I think that blasted Maxwell gave me head lice!”

“Hm?”

“They must have come from him,” he muttered. “No one else has them. He sent them to torture me. He’s probably laughing at me now.”

Wolfgang stirred in his sleep. Wilson realized he’d raised his voice.

“Let’s talk about it over here,” said Willow.

She led him a little way away from the fire. “You think Maxwell put lice on you?”

“Yes. In my hair.” And he liked his hair. He had nice hair.

“Let’s take a look.” She reached for his head. He pulled away.

“Willow, don’t! They’ll go to you!” Did she not understand what he was saying? There were disgusting bugs on his head!

“I’ll just burn them off if they do. C’mere.” She pulled him close and peered at the nape of his neck. “Oh, dear. I see ‘em. Little nits.”

“Uughh!” He pulled away, shuddering.

“It’s no big deal. We’ll just clean them off with spider juice. It kills the little bitty bugs, so it should kill the bigger ones. Gee, you’re the scientist! You should’ve thought of it first.”

She sounded so calm. She looked so calm. “You really think it’s that simple?”

“Yeah. Look, it’s no big deal. Everyone gets lice. Didn’t you ever get ‘em as a kid?”

“Yeah, once.” His mother had nearly had a heart attack and then she had forbidden him from going to parties. He had sort of expected Willow to scream. Or recoil, or… something. But maybe that was silly. She wasn’t squeamish.

He was a bit squeamish. Sometimes.

“You’re not disgusted?” he asked.

“Well, it’s gross and all, but they’re just bugs. My friends had them a lot when I was little. I didn’t because I burned them off, but- hey, don’t scratch!”

He yanked his hand away from his head. He was well aware that scratching could only lead to a raw, bloody, and possibly infected scalp, but the itching was more powerful than his resolve.

Willow rummaged in her backpack and pulled out a spider gland. “Look! I got one right here.” She plopped it into his hands- a flabby membranous sack of juice. “Let’s go back to the fire. So you have light.”

Once they were sitting around the fire again, he started squeezing the juice out into his palm and applying it to his hair. 

“Umm,” Willow said in a low voice as his fingers encountered a bug and he yanked his hand away. “You have to touch the bugs to get them off, you know. It’s not like they’re going to bite your hands.”

“Yes, yes, I know…”

Willow pulled out the stone bowl that they’d eaten dinner in and filled it with water from her canteen. She put the bowl in the fire to heat it.

Wilson found another crawling thing on his head and pulled his hand away, shaking it. He stifled an urge to whimper.

Willow shook her head. “You’re not getting anywhere with that. Just let me do it.”

“I’m fine,” he replied, whispering, so as not to wake Wolfgang.

“Nah, nah, I’ll help. You don’t have a mirror. You can’t see what you’re doing.” Willow took the spider gland out of his hands and emptied the remnants of it into the bowl she’d been heating. “C’mere.”

“You don’t like water,” he protested.

“Eh, I’ll manage. It’s better when it’s hot.”

He skootched closer. She poured the bowl over his head.

It was hot and it burned where he’d been scratching his scalp raw. He squirmed and swallowed a yelp so that it came out like the sound of a catcoon starting to vomit. She yanked his head down and started scrubbing at his hair.

“I feel like a dog,” he said.

“That’s what happens when you get fleas.” Well, they weren’t fleas, they were- er- what were they? These were normal head lice, right? They could really be anything out here… “It’s working, though, the nits are coming right off.”

Wilson cut his own hair, went easy on the Brilliantine and had not visited a barber in years. He could not recall the last time anyone had touched his hair, let alone washed it. He didn’t exactly mind it, he found, although he flinched any time her hands went anywhere at all near the region of his eyes.

Her hands were rough and callused. She’d been mining with them all day. She must be awfully tired. How was she still willing to help him take care of a revolting, non-life-threatening problem? In the middle of the night? And what had he done for her lately? Not much.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Oh, don’t mention it.”

Hm. Wolfgang was stirring.

He was looking up at them.

Willow’s fingers were still buried in his wet hair.

Wilson had no ready explanation for this.

\---

The dirt was fresh. Food was close. Real food, not like the scrawny rabbit carcasses in his backpack.

Ha! There it was on the horizon!

Wilson crept closer until he could no longer resist breaking into a run. The beast fled.

It was a longish run but it wasn’t as hard as running had used to be. In no time he had the koalefant cornered against a cliff.

It stared at him with inscrutable glassy beast-eyes. It was just him and the beast now! Like in caveman days! Four years of college and two years of medical school, all leading up to running around in the woods bearded and stabbing things.

Oh well! He was hungry.

The animal was clumsy and slow. Powerful, however- and one blow with its truck clipped him in the arm and would leave an awful bruise. But in the end it was really no contest.

His backpack was quite heavy when he’d taken the meat and the trunk. This should tide them over for a while. Even if only half of the meat was for eating. He had… plans for the other half.

He started to leave, paused, and turned. The demolished carcass of the koalefant lay there with its slick, bloody ribs pointed towards the dimming evening sky. Wilson had paused during the butchery to snack on the animal’s liver and the grease of it was still on his face.

This was barbaric.

He shook his head and turned away. People before beasts! The meat would make a wonderful stew, and Willow would be so pleased to have it.

He strode forward and instead of landing on the ground the way it ought to his foot came down sideways and bent back.

“Agh!”

He crashed onto one hip with a loud snap. He sat there for a moment, blinking. He had successfully killed an animal twice his size with a spear he’d made with his own hands, barely a scratch on him, and then he had stepped in a rabbit hole, and now his ankle was… sprained? Broken? Sprained. But it was a bad sprain- barely held his weight.

That was not fair.

Unless it was fair- perhaps this was his punishment for killing an innocent animal.

No. That was stupid.

It was a long, unpleasant walk back to camp after that, and when he arrived Willow was not there.

He packed the meat away in the ice chest, and, even though his ankle was throbbing and really ought to be attended to first, he shaved, washed his face, and changed into a slick vest they had made out of hound’s teeth- as a joke, but it looked nice. Yes, he would wear the silk hat too. It was good to make some pretense of being a civilized human.

That all attended to, he made a makeshift ice pack by wrapping a pig skin around some ice cubes. As he was applying it to his now-swollen and unpleasant-looking ankle, he realized that he could have just as easily used a chilled thermal stone and he had wasted perfectly good ice.

Oh well. More importantly, Willow was still missing and it was becoming quite dark…

Should he go looking for her? On one hand, she had her lighter, and she often went out after dark. She seemed not to need much sleep. But on the other hand, she could be lying somewhere dying. But on the other other hand, if she was, he’d never get to her in time to help her with this stupid ankle! But she might need him! He’d gotten himself home, he should be able to get himself back out…

Was that her now? That was her! And there was another voice with her. Wigfrid?

Willow laughed and he heard her bid Wigfrid farewell. She came into the camp and stopped when she saw him. “Well, hello!” she said. “What’s the occasion?”

She was clearly in the pink of health. “Where were you?”

“Hunting. We got so much meat!”

“Oh. Did you? That’s… that’s wonderful, Willow.” He closed his eyes, feeling mildly queasy with pain.

She started putting away the meat. “Why, there’s already meat in here!”

“I got some earlier.”

“Is that why you put on your fancy hat?”

“No.” Kind of.

She sat down beside him. “What’s wrong with your foot?”

“I stepped in a rabbit hole and sprained my ankle, that’s all.” On a completely unnecessary errand, apparently.

“Oh, geez. I’m really sorry.” She looked rather solemn. Well, it was just a sprained ankle. Nothing to make a fuss over.

Of course- any day now, the hounds would come, and he wouldn’t be able to run like this.

He hadn’t thought of that. “Uh- yes- just a sprain. I’m icing it. It’s nothing.”

She patted his arm. “I’ll make us some stew!”

“You don’t need to do that.” He couldn’t even think of eating at the moment. “I’m going to bed. I just wanted to make sure you made it back in one piece.”

“Oh… well, good night, then, I guess. You don’t want anything first?”

“No, no. That’s quite all right.” He took off his hat. “I guess I should be more careful.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Be more careful, you dumb lug.”

He crawled into his tent.

He woke up in the morning after an uneasy night and found out that she’d made him a pair of crutches while he was asleep.

\---

It was dark! Why was he awake?

He’d just gotten to sleep…

There didn’t seem to be anything wrong. Chester was nestled into his side, fast asleep. The tent was warm but not oppressively so.

Ah! There was a faint sound from outside.

Dogs? Maybe if he stayed still and quiet they wouldn’t come for him this time…

Willow! Her tent was quite nearby. If something was attacking, and it didn’t come to him, it would go to her!

He crawled out of the tent. The only weapon handy was the little flint knife he used to skin animals with, but it’d do in a pinch.

There was Willow. She was sitting curled up by the fire and rocking back and forth.

He went to her side. “Willow? What is it? What’s wrong?”

“The- the- the- the shadows-“

There was blood on her arms. “What did this? Where is it?”

She pointed at… nothing. He squinted. His far vision wasn’t the greatest, but he wasn’t so blind as to-

She slammed backwards into his chest. New gashes appeared on her arm. She screamed.

He slashed out at the empty air with the knife. He connected with nothing and he still couldn’t _see._

So he couldn’t attack the thing that was hurting Willow but maybe he could keep it from reaching her. He wrapped her in his arms, pressing his cheek to hers.

She buried her face in his neck.

“It’s okay,” he said. “It’ll be fine.” She was being attacked by something he couldn’t see or feel. What was he going to be able to do for her?

She moaned and wrapped her arms around his waist so tightly he could barely breathe. Her skin was sticky and fever-hot.

“It’s all right.” He rubbed her back. “It’s okay.” What had done this to her?

“They’re gone,” she said after an eternity. “Oh, they’re gone. They’re gone.”

“Come here. Let me see your arm,” he said.

These gashes were deep. “Oh, Willow! Well, I mean, this isn’t so bad. I’ll just clean this up for you, hm? I’ll heat up some water.” She had left one of her stone bowls near the fire. He grabbed it and started looking about for a canteen. It went slowly because he didn’t remember where he’d left his and because he had to keep one eye on Willow. She looked so shaken. The terror of being attacked was probably worse than what had been done to her arm.

His jaw clenched. He was going to gouge Maxwell’s eyes out.

“Can you tell me what happened?” he asked as he cast about for the canteen.

“I- I had a headache, and then, these things showed up,” she said haltingly.

“I see… the next time you have a headache, I think you ought to tell me right away. Okay?”

“Yeah…”

Here was the canteen. He filled up the bowl with water and started to heat it.

Her voice was so uncharacteristically meek and quiet that he didn’t hear it at first over the crackling fire. “Thank you…”

“Mm?”

“Thank you for being there for me.” She was sitting crunched up and hugging her knees.

There for her? _He_ was there for _her?_ He’d be dead without her. He hadn’t even been able to keep her from getting hurt! “Oh- oh, Willow-“ He fumbled with the bowl and nearly spilled it. “I- I’ll clean up your arms. This may hurt.”

He mixed the water with some healing salve and washed out her wounds before binding them up in honey-coated papyrus. She sat quietly throughout the process.

“Are you going back to bed?” she said when he was finished.

“I thought I would watch the fire for a while instead.”

She nodded. And, weakly, she smiled.


	18. Castanthropy; or, Woodie Must Confront The Reality Of His Curse When It Is Unexpectedly Discovered

Oh no there were splinters and wood shavings _everywhere!_

Woodie sat up, cradling his aching head in his hands. Another full moon had come and gone. Another swath of forest had gone.

He’d have to get back to Lucy. She must be so frantic!

He staggered to his feet. One of the logs strewn across the ground moved. Woodie jerked back.

First the trees had come alive to punish him… now their logs were, too? If only Lucy were here!

Wait, that wasn’t a log. That was… log armor…

Wilson sat up, blinking.

Apart from maybe WX-78, Wilson was the last person in camp Woodie would want to know his secret. Had he seen?

Wilson’s eyes were bright. There was a big bite missing out of the side of his armor.

“Oh…” Woodie said.

Wilson stood up and grabbed Woodie’s wrists. Eyugh! His hands felt like rotting wood after a cold rain. “That was incredible! I’ve never seen anything like it. Not even on this island!”

“Oh…”

“Your physiology must be exquisite. You ripped through this entire acre of forest! And _ten frogs!”_ Wilson gestured expansively at a reddish patch of ground about ten feet away. “I thought I was a goner. And then you- it- but I’m sorry. You look tired. Such a transformation must draw on your energy something awful! Here.” He helped Woodie to sit down on a tree stump.

Woodie hung his head and took a few deep breaths. Wilson lightly patted his shoulder.

“With your power…” Wilson mused. “We’ll be able to do so much more. The spider nests blocking the way to the gold fields, for example…”

He was making _plans?_

“I don’t want to be this way!” Woodie blurted.

“No?” Wilson cocked his head. “You don’t? Why?” His brow furrowed. “Is it painful?”

“I don’t like it, is all,” he hedged.

“Really. Hm. You don’t want to transform?”

Woodie stared at the ground and shrugged.

“Well, then.” Wilson patted his arm. “We’ll just have to make it stop happening.”

“Eh?” The calm way he put it made it sound like something Willow would say. Maybe she was rubbing off on him.

Wilson rubbed his chin. “I’m sure Wickerbottom knows some way to-“

“No, don’t tell her! I don’t want anyone to know!”

“No?” Wilson took a step back, folding his arms over his chest and frowning. Woodie thought for a moment that he was getting angry but then he remembered that Wilson usually looked like that. “Then I’ll have to do it myself… it’ll take a bit longer. Not much longer! Er- when do you change? What triggers the change?”

Woodie cleared his throat and shuffled his feet. He didn’t know what to think about this. He had to tell Lucy and see what she thought. “I’ll tell you later, eh, I’ve got to get back to camp and take care of a few things, you know. I’ll see you.” He staggered off into the woods with Wilson watching in confusion.

“Oh…” he said. “Okay.”

\---

 _He wants to fix you? More like he wants to make you into some kind of experiment. Don’t let him do it!_ Lucy fretted.

“I dunno, Lucy.”

Woodie was sitting with his back against a tree, watching the sunset. Everything was deceptively peaceful. “I can handle him if he tries anything, eh? If he can help… you know.”

Mounded, fluffy clouds drifted past, their undersides glowing with the last of the sun.

 _Well,_ said Lucy, _I want you to be happy._

Woodie got up and dusted off his pants.

The problem was finding him. Woodie had never sought someone out on the island before. He just stayed in his camp or traveled through the forests, or once in a while went to the main camp for a bite to eat when his own stores were empty. People ran into him, or he ran into them- or he didn’t, and they didn’t, and that was fine.

At least he knew where the others usually were… but Wilson and Willow’s camp was deserted. Woodie did a cursory exploration- not enough to find anything private, just to make sure no one was there and see if anyone had left a note or anything.

The only note he found was on the ice box. _SCIENTIFIC EXPERIMENT. NOT EDIBLE!!!_ Not very helpful, either.

He headed towards the main camp. On the way he heard female voices. Willow and Wigfrid were coming down the path, chatting.

“Nooo! You _always_ take the organs out and use them for bait! You don’t eat them,” Willow laughed.

“The liver is a delicious part of any meat feast!”

“We’ve died from eating livers, you nut!”

They looked like chummy schoolgirls.

Woodie stood by the path and cleared his throat when they passed.

“Ye-e-es?” Willow asked pleasantly.

“Do you need something killed, fair forest dweller?” Wigfrid asked.

“No, er… I was wonderin’ if you know where the other one is?” Woodie asked Willow.

She looked completely blank at that. “The other what?”

“Your other half!” Wigfrid said.

“My other half?”

“The bearded scribe. Your soul mate!”

“Oh.” Willow punched Wigfrid in the arm. “You mean that fat slob who eats all my food?”

Woodie scuffled.

“See, you’ve just made it awkward,” Willow said. “Um, we’re talking about Wilson now? Well, I don’t know _exactly_ where he is, but he told me he found a clearing where a Deerclops or something had knocked a ton of trees over, and it was north of here. He said he was going to go gather some of the wood. Why d’you wanna talk to him?” Her tone was interrogative. Slightly suspicious.

“He was, er…”

 _Tell her you lent him something,_ Lucy suggested.

“He was borrowin’ some of my tools and I wanted to, uh, see if he was done with ‘em…”

Willow shook her head. “Oh, dear, he’ll never remember to give those back. Here, I got some extras, what do you need?”

“I’d rather ask him,” Woodie stammered.

Willow shrugged. “Suit yourself. He’ll never remember, though.”

\---

A clear area up north. That had to be the place from last night.

Sure enough, Woodie walked into the wasteland of felled trees to find Wilson harvesting the gnawed wood.

His head popped up so fast that his hair bounced. “Ah! Woodie! Hello. I was just-“ He looked down at the armful of logs he was holding. “Oh, wait. This is _yours,_ isn’t it?”

“That’s alright,” Woodie demurred.

“You harvested it,” Wilson said.

“No, you can take it.”

“If you’re sure?”

“I’m sure. I came here to, uh… to say that maybe it’d be all right if you took a shot at the whole curse thing, eh?”

“Oh!” Wilson dropped all of the logs he was holding on the spot and stood up straight. “Well, then, we- ah,” he said, a noise of pain that was moderated, almost contemplative, and he touched his side. “Oh- sorry, that’s nothing. Let’s get to work, shall we?”

 _Careful, Woodie!_ Lucy said. _I don’t like his kind of work._

His waistcoat was torn. Woodie had bitten into his log armor on that side. He squirmed.  

“Did I, er… did I do that, then?” Woodie asked.

“Hm?” Wilson blinked. “It’s possible…” He shook his head. “I mean, no, I don’t think it was you. Come here! Let’s get your measurements to start with!” He was practically bouncing up and down. He took something out of his backpack.

“Is that a measurin’ tape?”

“Yeah! Willow helped me put this together. You see, I am exactly five feet tall,” he said, and broke off for a moment, flushing a tiny bit in the ears. “Well, we marked off a tape as long as I’m tall and folded it into fifths… you don’t care about that part. It’s a measuring tape, and it’s not perfect but it’ll give us an idea of things. Science starts with measurements.”

He began to take various measurements- the length from Woodie’s collarbone to his waist, the length of his arms, the length of his legs.

“My hands are cold, sorry,” he muttered.

“Oh, that’s alright…” Woodie mumbled in response, and then he flinched as Wilson’s hand brushed his arm. His hands _were_ cold. This was like being at the doc’s. In the middle of nowhere.

“So! How long has this been going on?” Wilson asked.

“A while.”

“Were you born this way?”

“No,” Woodie hedged.

The legend of the Epic Axe had been passed through camps of lumberjacks for generations. It was deep in the woods, they’d said. And it had been. Deep in the heart of the woods, in the ice and snow… there She had been. Lucy. The ultimate axe.

And there had also been a beaver statue, with glowing eyes…

“Do you have any idea how you got this way?” Wilson asked.

“No,” Woodie said. Lucy didn’t know. And he would keep it that way. He didn’t want her to feel bad.

“Hmm.” Wilson had finished measuring and now he put the tape away and jotted down what he’d learned in his notes. “So I see. When do you transform?”

“When it’s the full moon… or when I chop trees too fast,” he said. This felt weird, saying this kind of thing out loud. He’d never told a soul before.

Wilson nodded. “Maybe for the time being, you should stop chopping down trees and see if-“

“No,” Woodie said firmly.

Wilson grimaced. “All right. Um…” He tapped the end of his stick of charcoal against the paper, nibbling on his lower lip. “You really don’t want Wickerbottom to know, eh?...”

“You can’t tell anyone!”

“All right! That’s fine.” His voice dropped to a mutter. “I don’t have a thermometer… I don’t have my tools…” He perked up. “May I draw some blood?”

“I’d really- prefer-“ Woodie stammered.

“All right, I won’t,” said Wilson. He shook his head. “This would be much easier with a laboratory. However! All is not lost.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I need to take your pulse.”

Woodie offered up his wrist to the clammy grip of death.

“Why are your hands so cold?” he asked.

“I don’t know… they’ve always been like that.” Wilson counted under his breath for a little bit and noted down whatever he’d found out. “What do you experience when you transform? What’s it like?”

“Well, I don’t remember it afterwards, y’know…”

“I see. Are there any warning signs before it happens? Any symptoms?”

He shook his head.

“Are you aware of what’s going on around you when you’re in your other form? Do you remember that part?”

“Only a little bit…”

“I see…” He seemed to be taking all of this in stride. And it seemed like he was doing his best to be helpful- or maybe he was just eager to have a subject. “What do you usually eat?”

“Same as you, eh? Whatever I can get.”

“Oh. Yes. And how do you sleep?”

What kind of question was that? “I lie down in me tent?”

“Any unusual dreams?”

“No.”

“All right…” Wilson ran his fingers through his hair. He had such thick hair. Kind of girly. “I suppose that’s enough for now. I can start working. I’ll see you tomorrow, perhaps, and touch base?”

“Sure.”

Wilson popped to his feet and winced. He started to reach for his side and stopped himself.

Woodie also winced.

Wilson shook his head and gathered up some wood. “In the morning?”

“All right.”

“I’ll see you then.” He carried the wood away.

Looking around, it was like he hadn’t taken any of it. At least a three-kilometer area had been decimated. The ground was covered in gnawed lumps of wood two layers deep.

 _I know what you’re thinking, Woodie,_ Lucy said. _You didn’t hurt that man._

“I did,” Woodie said. “I saw his armor. I bit clear through it.”

_You would never hurt anyone. It was an accident. It wasn’t you doing it._

“I hope he can stop this, you know?”

_I know._

\---

Woodie headed into their camp shortly after dawn. Willow was roasting some cactus flesh over the fire.

“Hey,” she said. “You didn’t get your tools back, huh? I’ll get you some.”

“No, uh, I got them, but he wants me to show him the good trees today,” Woodie said.

“Oh. Well, I think he’s going to cancel,” said Willow. “He’s not feeling good. Something bit him and I think it’s infected.”

There were rustling sounds inside one of the tents (the shoddier, messier one) and Wilson appeared, blinking.  “What’s going on? Oh, hello, Woodie,” he said.

“He said you were going to go out today and I told him you can’t go out,” said Willow.

“Of course I can go out. I told you, it’s not infected,” Wilson insisted. “It’d hurt a lot worse if it was.” He was holding his side.

“You said you had a fever,” said Willow.

“It’s gone. I can go now, Woodie! It’ll only take a moment. I’ll be back for breakfast.”

“If he passes out,” Willow said, “just leave him in the dirt, Woodie.”

Wilson made a dismissive noise.

“What’s this about a bite then?” Woodie asked as they were heading away.

“Aaah, well, it’s nothing, really. It’s a bit sore, that’s all,” said Wilson. “Anyway, about your problem… I have an idea. But it will take some time to get everything together. The secret is in the wood. I’m going to need lots and lots of wood.” He rubbed his palms together. “Come back in a week.”

A prickle ran up the back of Woodie’s neck. “The full moon’s in a week.”

“Oh.” Wilson blinked. “Three days, then? I’ll have to work faster! That’s all.” He nodded. “Yes. Three days!”

\---

It took a week.

The structure had been built in the place where Woodie had turned. It was a big, loggy thing.

“Okay, there’s not much time.” Wilson was swinging a canteen back and forth in one hand. He looked pale, or maybe that was the fading light. “Get in!”

“Get in where?” It looked like a giant, half-built box.

Wilson pointed. Woodie stepped into the thing. There were huge lengths of wood hanging down over his head like ribs.

Wilson pulled a switch.

Nothing happened.

“Come on,” Wilson snapped, pulling the switch up and down and up again. Sweat glistened on his forehead. “Come on!”

The moon came up.

“Oh, no!” It was starting. Power was welling up inside him. He couldn’t fight it. It was a power stronger than any man- the power of the beaver!

With the last of his human vision, he saw Wilson collapse on the ground with a strangled cry.

The beaver saw food. Food in a square. On all sides, left and right, above him and below. He began to eat the food.

Danger.

A shadow rose from the ground. The thing was enormous and covered in black hair. Twice the size of the beaver, at least. But the beaver knew no fear. The two beasts met in combat.

The big beast had foot-long claws, when the beaver had only his incisors. But the claws were blunt and the monster was clumsy. The beaver locked onto its throat and threw it to the ground. Writhing, the monster dove into the ground and disappeared.

The man, Woodie, would have worried that the beast would come back, perhaps with a friend. The beaver was beyond such worries.

The beaver could smell trees.

Trees!

\---

Woodie woke up next to a fallen tree trunk.

He sat up, holding his head. The destruction of the forest was wide. But there was something else. Something he was forgetting…

He picked himself up and started heading back in the direction of the invention. On the way, he found something in the ground. It was a trail. Like a slug trail, if a slug was the size of a small car.

He followed the trail to its end. There were holes, pits and trenches in the ground as far as the eye could see.

They’d been scooped out with claws.

A were-moleworm.

The trail led to a bushy-headed form spread out facedown on the ground. Woodie squatted down next to him and gently shook his shoulder.

Wilson’s voice was muffled. “I think I ate a rock.”

“I’m sorry,” Woodie said.

“More than one rock.”

“This is all my fault.”

“No, no.” Wilson pushed himself up off the ground. “It was the invention. It didn’t work.” His usual buoyant manic energy was gone. His voice sounded flat.

“I bit you!”

“There’s no evidence that lycanthropy- er- castanthropy is spread through bites,” said Wilson.

“I’m sorry,” Woodie repeated.

“No, no, don’t be! I’ll try again next month and get all this fixed.” He rolled his head from side to side to work out a kink in his neck. “Now if you will excuse me, I need to take a bath. Somehow. I am covered in mud.” He staggered off.

Lucy was lying on the ground. Woodie picked her up.

 _Oh, honey, it’s not you,_ she said. _You are more than this._

Woodie rubbed the flat of her blade against his cheek.


	19. Long Live The King; or, Maxwell Muses Upon Unpleasant Matters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is one of the few I can say definitely cannot be in the same continuity as the others because there seem to only be Maxwell and Wilson on the island and Maxwell can't read Wilson's mind like he apparently could in at least two of the other stories...
> 
> ...It's short. I was thinking of the Lion King.
> 
> Maybe the next story will have a beefalo stampede in it...

Maxwell’s hands were starting to tremble. The rock surface was skinning the tips of his fingers. He was not going to be able to hold on much longer and there were _things_ in the ocean. Inasmuch as he was still able to feel, he was afraid. Inasmuch as his life was worth fearing for.

Someone was coming, his light, creeping footsteps drawing nearer along the rock surface. “Pal,” Maxwell said. He did not say anything more. Under the circumstances, asking for help was a bit… gauche.

Wilson peered over the edge. He looked a little out of focus around the eyes, as usual; he was fogged over and sluggish.

The fog was clearing now. The predicament in which Maxwell had found himself was sinking in. A light was dawning in those eyes.

“If you should decide to pull me up,” said Maxwell, “I’ll make it worth your while…”

Wilson said nothing. He slipped an axe out of his backpack and rolled the handle between his hands.

“Now come on. Is that strictly necessary? I mean really,” Maxwell said. “If you want to be cruel you might at least do the proper thing and use the heel of your shoe, or-“

He was slipping already when the blade came down. But it still hit its target.

\---

Maxwell hissed in air between his teeth.

The surroundings were dimly lit by the embers of the fire. Maxwell was laid out flat on his back on a layer of straw, barely better than plain old ground. Above him were stars that winked in and out in a grotesque approximation of twinkling- stars that changed their positions as they chose. 

He turned his head. Wilson was curled up next to him. His fingers twitched at random and his eyes moved rapidly behind their lids. His breathing was ragged and shaky, almost sobbing. In waking life he spoke rarely and flinched at sudden movements.

If only Maxwell could see into the dark spaces locked up in his skull. What was he thinking? Was he _truly_ abject, or was he capable of the thing he’d done in Maxwell’s dream?

Did it matter? When would he ever get the opportunity to do so?

Wilson had something clutched in his arms, a large rabbit tail. A comfort object. How adorable.

Maxwell deftly stole it and chucked it into the embers. Wilson moaned in his sleep and hugged himself. He didn’t seem to be faking.

Maxwell folded his hands behind his head and looked up at the obscene things that were not stars. Charlie was out there watching him in the darkness. Sometimes, every once in a while, he wondered if she approved of what he was doing. Or would approve if she was still herself.

It didn't matter.

He rolled onto his side and tried to go back to sleep. It was difficult with the sound of Wilson’s frightened breathing in his ear.

Perhaps his breathing should be stopped.


	20. Homesickness; or, Banal Domesticity And A Child Of Folly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Domestic fluff crap for Valentine's Day.
> 
> I guess.

Homesickness

 

It had been, of course, Wilson’s idea to come to the beach in the first place.

Willow had stood and watched him with her head tilted in amusement while he expounded on all the reasons why they ought to go to the seaside immediately. They had plenty of money. They didn’t need to put it towards anything pressing. And it was healthy to go to the seaside. The air was good for the constitution. And she could sit in the sun. She liked the sun.

Besides, families were supposed to go on vacations. That was what they did.

Willow had reminded him of the results of their camping trip to the woods. He had told her that the seaside was nothing like the woods. There were very few trees there, and many other people. And they could go to bonfires and see fireworks…

And now here they were. At the beach.

Wilson scooted back under the shade of his umbrella, which kept moving with the sun. There was sand in his suit.

Willow was spread out next to him in the full glare of daylight. She loved it. She could lie in it all day. If Wilson stuck one finger out from under the umbrella it would be roasted to an unhealthy shade of red in ten seconds.

At least he had a good view of Willow. Her new swimsuit was quite fetching. They had bought matching red and black woollen tank-top-over-shorts affairs. It looked somewhat less fetching on Wilson, who had never been terribly athletic. Willow claimed he looked cute. She was the only woman he needed to impress, he supposed.

In between them was the sleeping baby, with his own little parasol ensuring he stayed in the shade. Wilson adjusted the parasol. Marshall was such a calm child. He was sleeping tranquilly even with the chatter of strangers all around. Wilson wouldn’t have been able to sleep here.

Now, this was exactly what the beach was supposed to be like. He didn’t know what else he’d been expecting. It wasn’t as if the beach was going to be deserted… completely deserted… a whole island with just him, and Willow, and… “Charlotte!”

She was getting much too far away, especially since Willow was in a blissed-out trance and wouldn’t help watch her as attentively as she usually did, and his far vision was not the best. He beckoned her closer.

She trotted up. “I got all the shells over there.”

“You have to say where I can see you. Have you tried digging?” He pulled the duffel bag closer and opened it. He must have brought a trowel- ah, here it was.

He handed the trowel to Charlotte and adjusted her bonnet, which was hanging by its strings.

“I can’t see as well with it on, Pop,” she told him matter-of-factly.

“But your face will burn.”

Willow tsked from her sunbathing positon. “She will be fine.”

It was true that Charlotte and Marshall had their mothers’ olive skin and seemed to tan prettily in sunlight instead of frying painfully, but there was no harm in being cautious.

“It’s just safer if you wear it,” he told Charlotte. “Now, there are all sorts of things you can find underground! Take that trowel and start digging.”

Her eyes lit up. She had Willow’s clear grey eyes, and when she was excited she looked just like her, which always made Wilson worry that she might do something recklessly dangerous if he didn’t step in. Just like her mother. “There are more shells?”

“I don’t know. Possibly. But there are definitely other things. Like bones! Remember when we found Mama’s old kitty in the backyard?”

“That was fun!”

“And there are bugs, too,” he said. “Only play with the bugs if they’re dead, though. I don’t want you to get stung. Oh, and I guess there are funny-looking rocks, too. Now go play, and don’t go where I can’t see you, and do _not_ go in the water.”

“Okay, Pop! Thanks!” She scurried off.

“That’s a bit far,” he muttered.

“Tut, tut,” said Willow. “She’ll be okay.”

Right, yes. She would be. There was nothing here that was going to show up out of a bush that had looked perfectly safe and attack her. It was easy to remember the tranquil, mild season and the thrill of finding a new place and the privacy of being away from the rest of the camp for the first time in forever, and to idly wish for it back… but he had to also remember the snakes.

Snakes _everywhere._

Wilson shuddered. He wriggled back into the shade, which had moved again, and was greeted by a raspberry sound of displeasure. He jumped and looked down. His lap was full of sand. “Mars! Are you awake?”

Marshall blew another raspberry.

“Were you burying me in the sand?”

Marshall deposited another handful of sand into Wilson’s lap. Wilson scooped up the warm, wriggly baby. Marshall twisted and turned and reached for the sand.

“He heard you talking about digging,” said Willow. “Now you’re in for it.”

“I guess so.” Marshall plainly did not want to be held. Wilson set the boy down and gave in to being covered in grit. “He never buries you.”

“He doesn’t see me playing in dirt all the time.”

“Well, true, but-“

Just then a shadow fell across the bright beach ahead of them. Wilson froze. His first thought was that Maxwell had followed them all the way from New York to the south of France solely to irritate them.

But this wasn’t Maxwell. It was a lanky stranger.

A quick check revealed that Charlotte was only about ten feet away and busily digging in the sand- her bonnet was back to dangling around her neck.

Willow sat up and took off her sunglasses. “Yes?” she said in a voice that was both musical and somehow still indicating in no uncertain terms that she did not welcome the intrusion.

“Wilson? Willow?” The man had a heavy French accent. “Petite Charlotte aussi! C’est vrai?”

Wilson met Willow’s eyes. She did not recognize the man either, he saw.

Marshall blew another raspberry. The strange man looked delighted upon noticing him. “Ah! Est-il votre bébé? Vous avez un petit fils?”

Wilson’s college French was more than a decade old and had been approached in a rather desultory manner to begin with. He thought he had heard ‘you’ and ‘baby’.

“Vous avez…” he began, haltingly. How did one construct the past tense again? “Vous avez…” What was the word for ‘read’? “Vous avez dire? Uh, dire ma… recherche?”

The man looked quizzical. “You do not speak French, Wilson,” he said.

It was not a question.

“I don’t,” Wilson confessed. “How do you know my name? Did you read one of my papers?” But then, how did he know Willow? Had he published anything that mentioned Willow? Or Charlotte, for that matter?

The man looked taken aback. “You do not recognize me?”

“Um,” said Willow. “Well, no. But you do look familiar.”

“You have only seen me with makeup, I think.” Makeup?

The man struck a theatrical pose and Willow’s jaw dropped nearly to her chin. _“Wes?”_

“Oui, oui! Wes! From the island!”

“But you don’t talk,” Wilson stammered.

“I am not working today.”

“Wes!” Wilson popped to his feet to give the man a hug- dumping off all of the sand and frustrating Marshall in the process.

\---

They met Wes that evening for dinner.

“I wasn’t expecting this place to be so nice,” Wilson muttered. He hadn’t brought really nice clothes. He didn’t own a tux. He hadn’t even been married in a tux. He’d been married in a top hat and a vest made of literal hounds’ teeth… by an old woman in a captain’s hat… and later paid a great deal of money to have some documents forged…

“What does Wes talk about?” Willow wondered aloud. “Wes doesn’t talk. What does he have to _say?_ ”

“You could ask him about balloons?”

“Who’s Wes?” Charlotte asked. She frowned slightly. “Is he my uncle?” She was dressed nicely, at least. Having had to dress his little girl in spider silk and beefalo hair for the first few years of her life, Wilson occasionally bought her more dresses than she really needed.

“No, no no,” Willow assured her. “We are _not_ meeting any of your daddy’s family on this vacation.”

“You remember Wes, don’t you, Charlotte?” he said to her, getting the subject firmly away from his family reunions. “He used to paint his face white and give you balloons.”

“Oh… yeah! Him! From back home!”

So she did remember- wait. Home?

Wes appeared then, with a freckled brunette in tow. “Ma femme,” he said, clearly pleased.

She was wearing plaid, denim and a cowboy hat. Wilson immediately felt less conspicuous in his three-piece suit.

“Howdy, y’all!” she said. “How are y’all doin’? Charlotte! I ain’t seen you since you was knee-high to a grasshopper!”

“How do you do?” Charlotte said dutifully, shaking hands.

Willow peered into the woman’s face. _“Wigfrid?”_

“The name’s Winona!”

Wilson and Willow looked at each other for a minute.

Marshall squirmed in Willow’s arms and made a happy sound.

“Wigfrid!” Willow yelled. She handed the baby to Wilson and clutched Wigfrid into an embrace.

“Yee-haw! Willow! You ain’t changed a bit!”

“Wigfrid,” Willow repeated. She sounded almost like she wanted to cry.

\---

“She is very dedicated,” said Wes as Wigfrid- er, Winona- pored over a menu and made vaguely cowgirlish noises. Wes looked at her with sheer adoration. “A true artist.”

“This whole menu is in French,” Willow said. “I don’t know what I _thought_ it was going to be like... what’s this?”

Wigfrid leaned over and fluently read off a menu description before saying: “It’s rare steak, darlin’.”

“Oh. Okay. I guess I’ll have that. Thank you, Winona. You know, um, we always ate best on the island when you were around to… shoot… beefalo,” she said with a straight face. “With your cowgirl spear.”

“You weren’t too bad yerself!”

“Thank you.” She looked back at the menu. “Can you help me find something for Charlotte? What d’you think you want to eat, sweetie? How about frog legs?”

“Okay!” Charlotte said with enthusiasm.

“Actually those do sound good,” Wilson muttered. “Do they have them in a sandwich? Mars, no.” He retrieved his menu from the baby’s mouth, surreptitiously wiped the drool off on the tablecloth and deposited the soiled item on the adjacent, empty table.

Marshall began to slam his hands down on the tray of the high-chair, looking very serious about this whole affair. The noise was not terribly loud, but it might be distracting… Wilson offered him a pacifier. Marshall took it and forgot about hitting the tray.

Willow tapped his shoulder. “Wes asked you a question.” Her eyes were bright and dancing.

“Oh?” He’d missed it entirely. His hearing was starting to go. A few too many explosions in the laboratory. Willow and Charlotte both adored explosions. “What was it?” he asked.

“Well? Wes?”

“You asked if I had read your research,” said Wes. His voice was really rather pleasant, something like a French horn. “I do not believe that I have read anything you have written, but I have read an article that I think mentioned you?”

“The expedition?”

“To the Arctic?”

“That was me.”

“He went out in the woods to study things,” Willow broke in, “and he wrote a paper, and they read it and wanted him for the expedition. And now he’s a _little_ bit famous.”

“I didn’t do a lot on the expedition,” said Wilson.

“Pop killed a polar bear,” Charlotte said, breathless and squirming with excitement.

“I didn’t do a lot of science, though. I was sort of just there.”

“Polar bears! Tarnation, and I missed the party,” said Wigfrid- Winona- whoever.

“When the boys at school say their dads make a lot of money, I say that mine killed a polar bear,” Charlotte bragged.

“It wasn’t difficult. The bear was _tiny,”_ Wilson said. “I thought they were supposed to be big! You could have handled that yourself, Charlotte. That bear wasn’t any bigger than- I don’t know- an automobile. Maybe a truck. _Maybe._ And it was _completely_ mundane. No unusual powers whatsoever.”

“The polar bear wasn’t a big enough challenge for poor Wilson,” Willow said, patting his arm with obvious delight.

“No, it was about right, I just don’t know why everyone’s going on about it.” And in front of Wigfrid, of all people. “Any one of you could have done it.” Yes, even Wes. Probably.

“Well, that’s true. I would have killed two polar bears,” said Willow. “Too bad I was too busy to come.”

Yes, too bad. Most of Wilson’s memories of that expedition were of missing his family more than he’d thought possible. And of being intensely annoyed by most of the people he was working with. The money had been pretty nice though. Of course they had taken some valuables from the island, but those wouldn’t last forever.

But they were talking about him too much. “And I see…” He trailed off. Wigfrid’s unusual acting methods left him not knowing whether or not to congratulate her on the new role. Was that breaking the rules? “Ah- how are you liking France?” he asked her instead.

“Sure is different from Texas.”

“Yes, I suppose France is very different from Texas.” Wilson had never been to Texas.

“But I have another question. I was working before, and I could not ask,” said Wes. “It was quite a feat to return us intact, Wilson! How in the world did you do it?” He leaned forward.

“Good luck with that,” Willow interrupted. “He’s never told _me.”_

“That ain’t sportin’ of y’all,” said Wigfrid.

Wilson shrugged. “I have to keep some things to myself or anyone could do my job,” he said rather lamely. The truth was there was a rather too-convenient gap in his memory. He didn’t know how he’d gotten back. He did not think he wanted to. “I’m just glad to be with Willow. I was afraid going through together wouldn’t work… you two had no trouble staying together?”

“No, none.”

Just then Marshall made a piercing sound of dismay. He’d knocked the pacifier to the floor.

“Oh, dear,” Wilson said, retrieving it. “I’ll go to the washroom and clean this up.” Oh, dear, indeed. No more questions for the time being. What a shame.

On the way, he passed the kitchen. There was a man inside, working frantically. His dark skin had a greyish, unhealthy cast.

Wilson paused. His surroundings faded to something like a dream as he knocked on the side of the doorway to get the man’s attention. “Pardonnez-moi, monsieur, mais j’ai une problème. Non, non, ce n’est pas de cuisine. Parlez avec moi un moment, s’il vous plait…”

The next thing he knew he was rinsing soap off of the pacifier.

He looked up into the mirror, blinking.

Had he been doing something? Of course, washing off the pacifier. Was there anything else?

Hmm. Nope.

\---

It was nearly midnight when they got back to the hotel. It would have been later- Wes and Wigfrid were by no means ready to turn in- but they had the children as an excuse to get back.

They set to getting ready for bed, putting Marshall (who was already asleep) in the crib, getting things ready for the next day and so on without speaking a word to each other- they were too tired and they both knew what to do. Charlotte settled down on the balcony with a book while her parents shuffled around.

Eventually Willow went into the bathroom to freshen up after the day. Wilson wandered out onto the balcony for a moment of fresh air.

“Daddy?”

Charlotte’s voice was soft and careful, and she didn’t call him that anymore unless she wanted something big or had done something wrong.

“Yes, dear?” he said, preparing himself for something like… oh, what might she want... a pet? She couldn’t have gotten in trouble at school, they were on vacation. What kind of pet? He didn’t like snakes. Anything else, well, he’d have to ask Willow…

“Are we ever going to go home?”

Was that all? Where had that confusion come from? “Of course we are. This weekend. You didn’t think we were moving here, did you?”

“Not back to the house, back to, you know, the other place.”

His heart thumped. He sat down next to her in the other chair.

He didn’t know what to say to her at first.

The stars glittered outside. Real stars, fixed in place. Below them, the lights of the city.

“Charlotte…” He didn’t want to scare her, but she was mature enough… she could handle the real answer. He tugged down the collar of his shirt to expose his neck. “Do you see this?”

“Uh huh.”

He had ragged red scars across the side of his neck. The island healed all wounds- when one was given a new body. These had been gifted to him by a hound on his last body before leaving and they were permanent. Wickerbottom had kept him alive that time, if only by a sliver.

“This happened because of the island,” he said. “This will never happen to you, Charlotte.”

“Okay.”

They fell silent. Was she just asking out of curiosity? Did she miss the other world? Was it a low fever in her blood? A fog in her mind? Did it make real life seem pale and dull, with only her immediate family seeming to be really there?

No. No, surely not… she was only ten…

Marshall cried out from inside and Willow made soothing noises. “Are you hungry? Come here, baby.” Her voice was soft but clear, even with his hearing loss. If Wilson could hear what she was saying, she could hear them. Had she been listening?

“I think it’s time you went to bed,” he told Charlotte.

“Aw…”

“It’s very late.” He thought he might pass out if he didn’t get to bed. “We can talk more in the morning.”

\---

He flopped into bed next to Willow. She curled up and snuggled into his chest. He put his hand on the warm curve of her back. Maybe they didn’t have to go to the beach tomorrow… maybe they could just stay like this all day. Charlotte could read her book. Really, why go back out? None of them spoke French anyway.

Willow was murmuring something.

“Hmm?”

“I miss it too,” she said, quite matter-of-factly.

Wilson was silent. He had never said that he missed the island.

“But we can’t go back,” she said. “So I don’t think about it.”

He kissed her, out of affection and gratitude more than ardour.

She kissed him back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you see any problems with the French bits, do correct me! I was going to have my old professor look at it before I posted it but... I ran out of time. Also, I don't want her to know I write fanfiction. I respect her greatly.
> 
> So what you're seeing is 201-level French knowledge plus a spell check in Word. I solemnly swear to you that I did not use Google Translate, not even a little. Honest.


	21. Infection; or, Skip this one

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is another one of those awful 'what if' things.
> 
> Note: Wolfgang, Wes, and Wendy are not mentioned because- according to the William Carter puzzles, or what I read about them on the wiki- they probably knew Maxwell personally at some point.

**Patient Zero**

**1902**

“Wills!”

William was brought out of his reading at once. The sound of one’s name had that power… even if the voice was utterly unfamiliar, and besides, very few people called him Wills to begin with.

Sure enough, they weren’t talking to him. The voice seemed to belong to a young boy, a member of a group of young boys, addressing another young boy who was sitting some ways away under a tree. This boy was very small, and had a book that was almost larger than himself spread out in his lap.

Two Willses, both sitting in the park, both reading, both with new and fascinating lives ahead of them- one due to his youth, the other due to his amazing new opportunity. It felt like a good omen.

William smiled and bent back over his own book. He was just about getting the hang of this language…

The other Wills was called a few more times until he gave up and wandered over to his pack of friends. The sound of their play faded from William’s awareness as he worked.

Then there was a sound of a scuffle, a cry of dismay, and suddenly William had a tiny companion on the bench beside him.

Wills sniffed and rubbed his nose with his sleeve. He was glowering as fiercely as a five-or-six-year-old boy with freckles can glower.

“Why, hello there,” William said.

“Hello. Can I sit here?”

“Certainly. Go ahead. Are you Wills?” William asked. “I’m a Wills too. My full name is William.”

“Pleased to meet you, William,” the boy said with a dutiful air. He was very articulate- perhaps he was older than William had thought he was.

“Are those your friends?”

“No.” Wills pointed to a big blond boy. “He pushed me down for no reason.”

“Oh, my. That was dreadfully mean of him.” William had very little idea of how to speak to children.

“And I’ve got new shorts.”

“They’re very nice,” said William. If a tad oversized.

“But I bled on them,” lamented the boy, pointing to a skinned knee. “Because he pushed me.”

“How awful! Here- would you like to clean up with this?” He withdrew his handkerchief and offered it.

“Okay.” The boy stuck out one chubby, solid little leg, clearly expecting to receive some attention to the red scrape across his knee.

William dabbed gingerly at it.

The boy snatched his leg back with a most odd expression. William assumed at first that he had caused the child pain, but that wasn’t a look of pain.

“Your hands are… cold,” Wills said.

“Are they? I’m sorry…”

“Um, I should get back, I think,” Wills said, scrambling away.

William looked down at the book spread in his lap.

**Airborne transmission**

**1918**

A man ran into the library, disrupting Calliope’s concentration.

He vanished into the shelves, and on his way she thought she recognized him; a pensive young student who kept erratic hours and had a most hectic demeanor. He never checked out materials, only read them in the library, and so she did not know his name.

She looked forward to the day when she acquired a job in a public library, away from the frantic world of college.

Another man came in. This man she did know the name of. “Mr. Wheeler,” she said, “you have been barred from entering this building.”

“Dash it all, woman!” Wheeler was flushed in the face, possibly from drink. And he was supposed to be a law student, which made her despair of the future of English law as well as the future of English universities. “My cousin just ran in here. I need to find him straight away!”

“You are not allowed in the library. I will find your cousin and bring him out to you.”

Wheeler seemed about to argue, but then he closed his mouth. He summed her up with a look and grimly nodded. “Right. You can handle him better than I can, I dare say. He’s about this high”- here he gestured to his shoulder- “-has bushy black hair- and looks absolutely knackered.”

“I believe I have just seen him enter. I will retrieve him.”

Calliope stepped out from behind her desk. This must truly be an emergency because Wheeler wasn’t ogling her calves.

His cousin was sitting behind the bookshelves, hunched over on the floor with his knees to his chest. He held a handkerchief pressed to his face. The handkerchief was splotched with blood.

“Hello,” said Calliope. This was one of the rare occasions when she was not certain how to proceed. Where was the blood coming from?

The man lowered the handkerchief and looked up at her with glazed eyes. There was red smeared around his lips and under his nose- but it did not seem to be proceeding from the nose. It was coming from inside the mouth.

“Have you been fighting?” she asked. Perhaps he had been struck in the mouth, although his lips didn’t look swollen.

The man coughed weakly. “No. Of course not. Wh- what do you want?” He kneaded and twisted the handkerchief between his hands, seeming not to notice the blood getting on his hands. His accent was oddly flat and nasal to her ears. What part of England was that?

She shook herself. “Your cousin is here to collect you.”

“Tell him he doesn’t need to bother,” he said. Ah, that accent wasn’t English at all. It was American. “I’m fine. I just need rest, that’s all. And I know he can’t come in here, so his threats mean nothing.”

He was quite pale and thin, and he had coughed. Tuberculosis? “Why does Mr. Wheeler wish to find you?”

“He thinks I need a hospital. I’m a medical student! Don’t you think I’d know if I need to go to the hospital?”

“I’m certain you know a great deal more about the subject than Mr. Weeler,” said Calliope. She made an attempt to sound gentle. The situation seemed delicate.

In fact, she would get down on the ground at his level. “However,” she said, “I do understand his concern. From my perspective, you seem quite ill.”

“Do I?” He made a dismissive gesture. “No, no, it’s nothing.”

“The presence of blood is concerning.”

“Listen. I have finals- I have to finish.”

“Surely you will be allowed to finish when you are well.”

“No, you don’t understand,” he said. “If I leave now I’ll never-“ He grabbed her sleeve then, and by reflex she pulled away.

“You will never what?” she prompted, to cover.

His eyes fixed on her sleeve where he had left a small bloodstain. “I’ll… never come back.”

“Why won’t you come back?”

He appeared not to have heard. His voice was weak. “But I… I have to go.” He looked up at her with dawning horror. “It’s not working. It’s not working anymore!” He looked down at his bloody handkerchief as if seeing it for the first time, and moaned.

“I think it is wise that you visit a doctor, yes,” she said, and though her heart insisted that she was in an alarming situation, her voice remained even. “But don’t lose heart, lad,” he could not be more than a year younger than herself at the most but the word rose to her lips unbidden, “it’s not as bad as you fear. I’m sure you’ll be quite well in no time and then you shall finish your degree.”

Tuberculosis was incurable. He had not mentioned a diagnosis, however. She was only guessing. The man could have bronchitis, pneumonia, lung cancer… or perhaps he had swallowed glass.

Or perhaps his lip was cut, and there was nothing else wrong with him. She did not know. There was no need at all to mentally sign his death warrant.

“I’m flunking out. I’ll never pass anyway.” He closed his eyes, looking as if he might like to die right where he sat. He was not going to die in her library. She would not allow it.

“That’s simply all the more reason to leave for a time and then resume your studies,” she said. “You’ll make up for lost ground.”

“I need to go,” he decided. He tried to stand and slumped back to a sitting position. She offered her hand. He waved it off. She forcibly grabbed him under the armpits and hauled him up. She brought him back to the entrance on her arm.

“Thank you,” he said hesitantly. “I think I can manage, though.”

“It’s no trouble at all.” His body was hot with fever. Calliope did not often touch other people, especially not men, and definitely not men she did not know. She would prefer not to have to repeat this experience.

At the doorway she handed the man over to Wheeler, who held his cousin close with a look of concern she would not have expected from him.

“Here, old boy,” Wheeler said. “Don’t make a fuss now, Wills, and we’ll just pop you along to the doctor, and he’ll fix you up right as rain again and you’ll be back in our apartment rattling around with your funny little ideas in no time. Eh?”

‘Wills’ nodded, his eyes glazed and the corners of his mouth drooping with misery. There was still blood on his lips. He looked like some sort of disappointed ghoul. He said nothing- he seemed near to fainting.

Wheeler smoothed back the smaller man’s unruly hair in a bizarrely maternal gesture. “Off we go, then.” He looked up at Calliope. “Thank you, Miss Wickerbottom.”

His gratitude was sincere.

“It is within my job to assist library patrons,” she said stiffly.

**Burning up**

**1930**

As Calliope turned the corner she saw the bright light under a nearby awning. A small girl holding a lit match. A few people were standing around watching as the girl put the match into one nostril, snuffing it out. She struck more matches and applied them without visible effect to her hair, her clothing, her tongue. Finally she lit a piece of newspaper on fire and put it, blazing, under her hat.

The onlookers clapped and tossed a few small coins into the girl’s outheld hat. Calliope lingered as the rest of the watchers dispersed.

The girl looked sweetly up at her. “I’m playing a game to help me buy schoolbooks,” she said.

“A worthy goal, dear. I have something for you.” She had been planning to use her nickel for a cup of tea, but the little girl must need it more. She thought briefly of taking the child away and bringing her back to Edinburgh, but that was quite impossible, she had barely enough money to get herself back, let alone a child. “But before I give it to you, I would like you to do something for me.”

The girl shot her a suspicious look. “Uh huh? What is it?”

\---

“What is your name, please?” the librarian asked.

“Willow,” the girl replied.

“Full name, please?”

“Willow… Blazemann,” she said. “With two n’s. Yeah.”

Calliope arched an eyebrow, but said nothing.

“Here you are, Willow.” Calliope’s colleague handed over the card and Willow took it.

“Neat! Thanks,” she said.

“With that card you can check out anything in the library. Up to three books at a time,” the librarian told her. “And you can keep them for two weeks.”

“For free?”

“Yes, for free!” The librarian smiled.

“Thank you!”

Willow bounced away, not seeming to notice or care whether Calliope followed. She did follow.

“With that card,” Calliope said, “you can access the whole of human knowledge. For free. You may not even need to earn your schoolbooks, if they are in the library collection.”

“Uh huh. That’s really swell,” the girl said. She turned her large, pale gray eyes up to Calliope’s face. “You said you had somethin’ for me?”

“Yes, of course.” Calliope dropped her nickel into Willow’s upturned palm. The American coin was shiny and engraved with an image of a buffalo. It looked like a fitting present for a child.

Willow examined it with clear pleasure. “Thank you,” she said sweetly. Then a slight frown wrinkled her smooth features. “There’s red on it.”

Calliope had forgotten about the wound in her hand. It must have re-opened. “Allow me to clean that for you.”

“Nah, that’s fine.” The coin had vanished into a pocket already. “Are you okay?” Willow asked.

“I am quite fine. How kind of you to be concerned.”

She reflected that although dear Mel was under a great load, and some stress was understandable, Calliope would return home to Scotland immediately if there was another fork incident.

**Heat resistance**

**1945**

Up ahead was a plain brown door, propped open with a little wedge.

Willow zipped inside. It was dark. Okay, so if she pulled out her light she’d be spotted right away by anyone following her, but she needed the light- so she pulled it out. No one was close enough to see it yet anyway.

She was surrounded by large, irregular shapes- a sawhorse, something big and bumpy she did not recognize at all, and a lot of pieces of wood, some of them partially painted.

She noticed the floor, which ended some feet away in a smooth curve, and it clicked. She was on a stage. These were props, most of them only half-made.

She darted behind a wooden cutout. The door slammed open behind her.

“Ma’am,” she heard. “You’re only making things worse for yourself.”

The voice was loud and not targeted to her location. He didn’t know where she was. Her light was hidden behind the prop.

Taking a deep breath, she turned off her lighter and stowed it. Now she was in darkness.

She slipped behind the next prop. She could hear footsteps- going in the other direction. She just had to get off the stage and find one of the other doors out.

She was at the edge of the stage now. She could feel it under her feet.

Alrighty then! She hopped off the edge.

She landed on something warm that yelped when she hit it and she clocked her head on something hard. She rolled off onto her feet, fists ready.

Her head was ringing. Her forehead was wet. She had split it open in the fall.

A white light- the other person had a flashlight. She looked dazed. Her head was bleeding too. They’d popped their melons open against each other. Some great escape!

“H- halt!” the girl with the flashlight said. She was wearing a suit of armor, minus the helmet. Rehearsing or something? In the dark? And she looked like she’d just woken up. “Intruder!”

Willow darted around her and ran down the aisle.

She emerged in a lobby. There were the doors out!

She grabbed the handles. Locked. And she didn’t have her picks.

Willow hopped into the ticket taker’s booth and scrunched down on the floor, hugging her knees to make herself smaller and less obvious. As if that would work! It was only a matter of time before she was found.

Gee. It had seemed like a good idea to run away at the time. But the officer had probably been going to let her off with a warning… and now she’d be charged with breaking and entering. Maybe assault too if the girl she’d landed on made a big fuss. Oh well! No use crying over spilled milk.

She played with the idea of just setting the whole building on fire. She would never really do it knowing there were people inside, but it was an alluring thought.

The burst of static made her jump and hit her poor little head again, this time on the shelf she was sitting under. The words that came next must have been coming from the radio sitting up there on that shelf- but they were coming from inside her, too.

_Say, pal! It looks like you’re having some trouble!_

_I know a way out of here, if you are brave enough to take it!_

**Bleeding gums**

**1950**

Wharton stepped off of the train with a high, haughty step, missed her footing and did a face-plant on the concrete.

Her mouth filled with blood. Something small and hard hit her tongue- a front tooth. Gone. But she was an actress. She _needed_ that face.

She barely registered that someone had helped her up. There was red hair piled up on top of his head and sprouting from his face in nearly equal amounts.

“Oh, no! Are you all right?” he asked.

Her blood had splattered his green plaid sleeves.

She was supposed to be Wharton the heiress. What would Wharton do? She could only think of what Mary Donnelly the actress wanted to do. Mary was in shock and trembling and wanted to cry.

“I’m sorry-“ she mumbled, her voice not the clearest it had ever been, and noticed that this man was also missing a tooth- “-I have to go, I’m so sorry!”

She grabbed her bags and rushed off.

“Wait!” he called.

She did not wait. If she had really been Wharton there would have been a limo, not a bus. This would never have happened.

\---

Her hand trembled on the page of the phone book. Dentist, dentist, dentist… no, first she needed to call her agent! No, she couldn’t call her agent, no one could ever know. But they would know!

She caught sight of her ghostly reflection in the wall of the phone booth. Her lip was all swollen.

Oh, what did it _matter?_ She wasn’t a leading lady to begin with. She’d never be a leading lady. Her nose was too snub and her face was too wide and her hair was too red. What did it matter if she had all her teeth or not?

She sniffled and picked up the receiver.

_Hello._

“I’d l-like to call- I’d like to call-“ Dentist? Agent? Who? Her swollen lip was making her hard to understand, she realized. Would she even be able to give him the number?

She realized then that she didn’t have a coin.

_No worries, pal! It’s on me._

“Oh… thank you…”

_Cheer up! Don’t you know there are all kinds of leading ladies? I have a special part in mind just for you._

**Zoonosis**

**1965**

Woodie had stumbled into the road. There were big red dots in the snow trailing his footsteps. He had reopened the wound in his leg.

He stopped, panting for breath.

 _You made it, Woodie,_ she said. That sweet voice had kept him going.

There. Headlights. He waved his arms.

He thought the truck wouldn’t stop- it looked like it wasn’t going to stop. But, just after passing Woodie, it slowed… it stopped.

The driver popped open his door and looked out. “Whoa,” he said.

Woodie raced through what he might say. The accident back at camp. The thing that had come out of the woods. The thing that had been him that had fought, but to no avail.

 _Don’t tell him anything that needs a lot of explaining,_ Lucy advised. _He just needs to know you need a ride._

“I’m sorry to bother you,” Woodie said. “Cut my leg. My truck’s out of gas. If it’s too much trouble to give me a lift, that’s OK!”

The driver stared at him. “It’s minus ten, eh?”

Yes. Woodie had noticed that…

“Get in the back,” the driver said. “I’m not supposed to pick people up, so just stay quiet back there, eh?”

“Thank you,” he said with feeling, and climbed into the truck. It was full of unmarked cardboard boxes. He sat on one. He was bleeding on it, but he couldn’t help it.

It was cold back here.

 _He should let you ride up front,_ Lucy fretted.

“Nah. It’s OK.” He hugged himself to keep warm.

**Mechanical transmission**

**1975**

The unit was damaged.

One of its locomotor units had been lost. The bullets of the humans had caused it to fall away.

They thought they were superior because they had made the WX-78 unit. The unit despised them.

It was hiding. Its optical inputs recorded dirt inches from its face. It was hiding in the dirt while the humans walked around free. It had found an open place populated by nothing but grass and rabbits and it had lain in a ditch to hide. The humans had made it weak. The humans had made it hide.

There were sounds outside. The WX-78 unit did not move.

“Hello?” The voice was that of a young male human.

The WX-78 unit was still in sufficient condition to kill a young human.

“Is someone here?”

It would kill the human. It would use the human’s flesh as fuel.

The unit emerged from its hiding place. The human was small. He was standing in a puddle of the unit’s leaked hydraulic fluid. He looked ‘distressed’.

“Are you all right?” he asked. He asked this before the WX-78 unit could kill him.

“YES,” the unit replied. “I AM VERY POWERFUL.”

“Are you a real robot?”

“YES. I AM MORE POWERFUL THAN YOU ARE.”

The boy was afraid. The unit could tell that from the look in his eyes and the paleness of his face. Yet the boy continued to speak. “Do you need any help?”

“NO.” Fuel resources low. Hydraulics low. Battery power low. “BUT AS YOUR MASTER I WOULD ACCEPT REFEULING.”

“What do you need for fuel?”

“I THINK YOU CALL IT FOOD.”

“All right! I’ll get you something to eat,” the boy said. He turned and ran away.

It was better this way. The unit could get more fuel this way. Killing the human would have been a one-time source of fuel.

The WX-78 unit took a ‘sitting’ position. Battery power low. Power fading.

It did not know when it would be able to conquer the humans.

There were so many humans…

Error. Optical malfunction?

There was a human here. But this human was not like the others. He was dark. He was cold and sinister. He was… good?

_Hey, pal._

\---

Webber had loaded his knapsack with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, the only thing he could get out of the pantry without Mum noticing.

He thought this was the place where he had left the robot- the leaky oil was all over the ground- but it wasn’t here.

“Hmm,” Webber reflected, sitting down. To soothe his confusion, he had one of the sandwiches himself.

The robot had been hurt quite badly, and had had only one leg.

He couldn’t have gone far, could he?


	22. Deerclops; or, Willow Meets The Millstone Around Her Neck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Willow discovers a weird man with a beard is living on the island with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: I spent a lot more time editing this than I usually do with these oneshots. I ended up writing like three different versions of it before this final one. I'm not sure what that portends for the quality. Maybe it will be better than usual. Maybe it will be worse. Maybe the editing zeroed itself out and now we have the same quality as usual in every respect I don't know. The ending is probably a little rushed- I hit the limit of effort that I'm willing to put into a random free fanfiction on the internet...

Free stuff!

Willow scrambled across the meadow to get at that sweet treasure chest. As she was flinging it open, she remembered that she’d already found one chest, and it had kind of exploded while she was opening it, and it had skinned her nose and burned some of the loot.

But this one seemed fine. Ooh! There was food in here! Willow had a quick snack of roasted crow drumsticks and stuffed the rest into her backpack for later.

Hold on, though! This food was still fresh. It couldn’t have been here too long.

Willow closed the chest and stood up. Her first thought was not that the food might still have a live owner, but that his corpse might be fresh and fleshy, and that whatever had made that corpse a corpse might still be around. He hadn’t starved to death, after all- there was tons of food.

She glanced around for hiding places. The rest of the camp consisted of a machine and a sloppy little shelter.

The machine looked like the one she’d made. Almost exactly like the one she’d made. In fact, the only difference was a series of little etchings on the dials and switches, swirls and curlicues and junk. Hmm hmm, Willow had had an inkling that she hadn’t really thought that thing up all by herself, and this seemed like proof…

Eh, so what? She knew a lot of funny stuff was going on- just look at how she’d gotten here. She didn’t know that she could do anything about it, so for the time being she’d worry about more important things.

She couldn’t see into the shelter, a raggedly little sheet was covering the opening. She squatted down and listened for a moment.

Something was breathing in there.

Willow popped to her feet. It would be safest to run. But, hey! She was pretty tough, and she wanted to know what was in there. She had a spear. It’d be fine.

She drew aside the cloth.

Something was sleeping in there. She saw what she thought was fluffy black fur, and she thought ‘dog’- then she thought ‘puppy’ because there wasn’t enough fur for a whole dog- and then she realized she was looking at a human head covered in thick hair and a scruffy beard. The rest of him was curled up under a makeshift silk sheet.

She jumped up and let the curtain swing back.

A person? Not a skeleton? And he was alive! He was breathing. There was some strange man on the island with her!

She had to go. Her backpack was still sitting by the chest. She picked it up and put it on, fumbling in her haste and nearly wrenching her shoulder with the dumb backpack strap.

Scuffling sounds from inside the shelter. She’d woken him up. She backed away and hit her leg on the sharp wooden corner of the chest.

The man threw aside the curtain over the entrance to his shelter and scrambled halfway out of it. He looked into her eyes and she had one of those moments where everything seemed to slow to a crawl and she had time to notice everything; his eyes were wide, his mouth was hanging open and his chest was heaving, he was holding a spear pointed uselessly at the sky.

Willow backed up around the chest. She turned and ran. The last image of him she saw as she was turning lingered in her mind- he was lowering the point of the spear.

\---

Willow spread her in-progress map out on her writing stone and picked up a freshly sharpened piece of charcoal. The stone- a flat rock, the closest thing here to a table- was pleasantly warm from sitting into the sun and bled heat into her fingers through the thin reed-paper she’d made.

She hadn’t paid too much attention to her compass in her dash back to camp, but she knew around where his place had been set up. She made a mark in that general area. It didn’t matter that she didn’t know exactly where it was, since she’d be keeping a pretty wide berth around it.

She sat back on her heels and ran her fingers through her bangs. She should think this through. It might be a little hasty to just decide to avoid the guy.

Maybe.

Gosh, he’d looked like a crazy man! But she must have scared the living daylights outta the poor sap. He hadn’t really been going to stab her once he saw she was a person!

Of course she had an awful lot to do. Yeah, an awful lot. And she was doing fine, and he was doing fine, and… well… a weird guy out in the middle of nowhere… no cops or anything on the whole island…

Maybe she’d let him cool off a lot before she went back.

Maybe she’d… like… not go back.

\---

“Here, kitty! Who’s a good kitty?”

The kitty looked her over with disinterest. It wasn’t exactly a kitty- it had the rounded frame of a raccoon, and it had pale, clear gray eyes that were enough like what Willow saw in the mirror to be creepy.

But she wasn’t going to get a real kitty, so she’d just have to make do. Unfortunately, this one didn’t seem to want to play anymore. It had followed her for a while after she’d given it one of the birch nuts it was obviously trying to get out of the trees. Now it was bored and she was out of nuts.

Willow had to stop pestering the poor thing. Cats didn’t like desperation. They liked patience and breathing space. Sighing, she got to her feet. She looked up.

There was a human figure standing some distance away.

Up the nearest tree she went, lickety-split. It was a birch tree, and she hid nicely in the puffy leaves. He had had his back to her, and she didn’t think she’d been seen.

It was Beardy. Willow usually had everything figured out, of course, but it hadn’t occurred to her- while she was preoccupied with exploring and mapping out the island- that he would also be doing more than just sitting and twiddling his thumbs in his camp.

The not-kitty was sitting right where she’d left it in the grass, grooming itself and paying no attention to what either human was doing.

What was Beardy doing, anyway?

She found that she could see him if she craned her neck to see around the branches. He wasn’t looking around for her. He must not know she was there. He was standing by one of the ponds.

A series of splashing noises ensued, after which Beardy turned around and dropped a fish in the grass. He had a fishing pole. There were fish in the ponds! It would have taken her a while to find that out for herself, the ponds were boring and aggressive giant frogs lived in them so she stayed away. It looked like maybe the frogs went to sleep in the evening, though- she didn’t see any now.

Beardy set the pole down beside him on the ground. Willow squinted at it, trying to figure out what he’d made it out of. A stick, obviously… and something else for line. She couldn’t tell what, she was too far away.

Beardy was crouching over his fish. He reached into his pants pocket and took out something shiny. She squinted. A knife.

He obviously knew how to use that knife, the fish was cleaned and filleted in about ten seconds. Hmmmmm! Perhaps he was a serial killer. Or maybe he was a butcher or something and was good with a knife for completely law-abiding reasons, who was to say?

As she was musing about it, he bent his head and scarfed down the fish right there. Completely raw. It took even less time for him to eat it than it had for him to cut it up. When he was done, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve, picked up his fishing pole and went back for more fish. She forgot to look to see what the line was made of.

What kind of barbarian ate raw fish?

He caught another one in no time- the fish must be biting something fierce today. This time he didn’t cut it up and eat it on the spot, but set it aside for later and cast for the next one. Perhaps he preferred his food cooked like a normal person but had been too hungry to wait for the first one… Willow had sort of taken a lot of his food a couple days ago. Maybe he’d been relying on that food.

Of course if he’d had a stash to begin with he was capable of feeding himself. Look at him with that pole, he had stuff to eat right now. No harm done!

How long was he going to keep fishing? There wasn’t much to do in a tree. She itched to pull out her lighter, but the tree might catch fire and now wasn’t a good time for that, with her in it and all… the branch would collapse underneath her.

Beardy must be getting bored too, because he sighed, and then he started to sing to himself. The sound was a little jarring- this was not a place for people and human voices.

She could just barely make out the words.

“After you get what you want, you don't want it. If I gave you the moon… you'd grow tired of it soon…”  
  
He hummed the next part, must’ve forgotten the lyrics. Then-

“You're always wishing and wanting for something. When you get what you want, you don't want what you get...”

It was the first music she’d heard in weeks. Despite not really caring for music in general and despite his voice being kind of whispery and flat, she leaned in to listen as he repeated the same two lines over and over.

“After you get what you want, you don’t want it…”

A snap! She jumped. Beardy’s fishing pole had broken.

And she had made a rustling noise. He turned, looking all around for the source of the sound. Not finding it, he snatched up his fish- his hand was shaking- and he scurried off.

He’d left the broken fishing pole.

Willow slipped down to the ground and grabbed it. The line was made of silk! She should have thought of that.

A twig snapped. She froze. It had slipped her mind that the stranger wasn’t a brainless hound or a stupid pig, but human and capable of basic strategy such as hiding to see what came out into the open when it looked like he’d left.

She turned on her heel. He hadn’t even gone far. He’d just been hiding behind a tree. She was losing her touch!

He had a spear.

She could just turn and run, there was plenty of space and she was fast.

They were going to run into each other again, though. They were stuck on an island together. And he probably just had that spear out because she’d given him a fright. “Hi,” she said. “Gee, I’m sorry I startled you, Mister!”

He stared at her. Standing face to face with him for the first time, she was discovering something she should probably have noticed sooner: Beardy was a shrimp. He did not look like he even had the upper body strength to murder her. Why, she was looking him right in the eye, and she wasn’t a big gal.

He looked her up and down. Up close he had skin like candle wax, a nose sharp enough to cut cheese, and eyes a confused shade of mucky dark blue. There were prominent dark shadows under the eyes, as if he was either very tired or a little bit sick.

He wasn’t saying anything.

“I’m Willow.” She stuck her hand out. “What’s your name?” she prompted. “I know you speak English.”

Trembling, he raised his hand halfway to take hers- she saw dirty fingernails bitten to the quick and a palm covered by some kinda weird half-glove- then he snatched his hand away and stumbled backwards. “Ah- aha! A t- trick! You’re not _real!”_

She blinked. “Yes I am.”

“Maxwell, you- you- _damnable_ charlatan!” He sounded vaguely British. He also sounded squeaky and brassy and scared.

So he knew Maxwell. Three guesses why. “Hey, it’s okay,” she said. “I am not with that awful man. He is scum.”

The fear on his face turned to anger. “I’m not falling for it. Get away from me!” He prodded her in the arm with the spear- not violently, but in an exploratory manner, as if he was poking a piece of roadkill.

“Hey! Watch it, fat-head!” she snapped. She smacked his hand. It went nerveless in surprise and the spear fell right out. Out of instinct, she pulled the fallen weapon towards her with her foot so’s he couldn’t pick it back up.

He backed away. “Hah!” A hectic touch of pink had risen into his cadaverous face. “If you wanted me to think for one second that this was on the level, you shouldn’t have picked such an unrealistically appealing form.”

 “What,” she said, “in the _world_ is that supposed to mean?”

“Come on!” He scanned her figure in disgust. “Like I’m supposed to believe that after all this time some kind of friendly, wholesome-looking young woman with great legs would just show up out of nowhere and make pleasant overtures...”

That did it. “Well, okay then. I don’t think I need to talk to you anymore.” She picked up the spear. “I’m taking this with me. Rude little boys shouldn’t be playing with big sticks.”

“Good! Go on, buzz off!” He stuck his tongue out at her. He was wearing some kind of hideous shirt made of woven grass. It looked temptingly flammable. “You won’t be making a chump of me again!”

“No, you’re doing a good job of that all on your own.” She turned on her heel and set off away from him without looking back. ‘Great legs.’ Eyugh! Men were awful. No way was she ever going anywhere near that guy ever again.

\---

The symbol she’d put on her map wasn’t placed very precisely, but she could tell she was on the right track. Beardy’s camp was close.

Here it was. In the light of the full moon, it looked quiet… he was probably asleep, or maybe on a reconnaissance trip and not in his camp at all.

She knelt by the first chest and opened it. It was full of little gadgets, not food. She closed it. The next chest had some kind of hat in it- sitting upturned and filled with berries.

She couldn’t hold the lid open and grab the hat at the same time, so she tipped the lid all the way back. It creaked. She froze. She glanced over her shoulder- no sign of movement anywhere.

On second thought, better not take the whole hat. If she did he’d definitely notice that was missing, and she didn’t need a hat anyway. Instead, she took handfuls of berries and stuffed them into her pockets, eating one or two here and there as she went.

Her hands were trembling. Maybe because she was colder than she realized or maybe because after all that had happened, she was back to stealing food. The bushes were bare, and the ponds were frozen over, and she was here. They’d been right, she was a dyed-in-the wool thief. Hooray for her. Whatever. Beardy was a jerk, he deserved it.

And then she heard it… a soft sound, but when you were supposed to be alone, someone clearing his throat could be seem as loud as a cannon going off next to your head.

She snatched up her lighter.

He was kneeling by his dark, empty fire pit. He must have snuck out of his tent while she was pilfering his stuff.

“Hello, there,” he said, tapping his fingers together.

She scrambled to her feet.

“What are you doing in my camp?” he asked.

She had been caught red-handed. Red berry juice on her fingers, even.

A few different possibilities flashed through her head. Contrition. Apologies. A mad dash for freedom. Or-

“What does it look like?” The best defense was a good offense. “I’m hungry, and you were a jerk, so I’m helping myself to a snack. I figure, after the vicious insults and most _ungentlemanly_ language you piled on poor old innocent me, you owe me a snack.” She scoffed. “It’s just a few berries. You won’t starve.”

He blinked.

“So,” she said, “I’ve got my berries now, and I will be going back home. This does not concern you anymore, little man. Good night.” She turned away.

“Wait- wait, don’t go. Don’t go yet,” he said, getting to his feet. She took note that he was unarmed. “You’re not human. You _can’t_ be human. I’ve been all over this stupid island. No one lives here.”

“Well, I don’t live here. I’m just staying here. Who’d live in this dump? Besides you, I guess.”

“Look here, woman,” he said, starting to pace. “I’ve been made a sap of once before, and once is it! Do you think I’m just going to keep falling for things in perpeturity?”

“It’s perpe _tuity_ , dummy,” she said. “Don’t flaunt your learnin’s if you don’t got ‘em. And if I was some kind of shadow witch queen of the nasties, ascended to earth in a pleasingly adorable shape, why would I bother with little old you? What am I s’posed to want, your moldy, rotten, useless soul?”

He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. “Yeah. I guess.”

“Weren’t you sleeping a minute ago?”

“Y- yes. You woke me up.”

“While you were sleeping all snug in bed couldn’t I just’ve gone on into your junky tent and taken your icky old soul?”

“I…”

“Couldn’t I just walk over there and take your stupid soul now if I wanted it? And if I was a shadow or whatever you think I am, what would I want berries for?”

He was in a tizzy now. Good. “If you’re a real person- how’d you get here?”

“Maxwell brought me here, stupid,” she told him. “How else?”

He blinked. “So- so he’s still kidnapping people?”

“Guess so.”

“Of course he is.” He scowled and folded his arms over his chest. “I suppose I stopped being interesting enough for him.”

“Yeah, because me being kidnapped is totally about you,” she said.

Beardy reached up and tugged restlessly at his ear. “I’ve gotten skittish,” he said. “Nothing here is what it seems. I’ve been unfair to you, I think.” He held his hand out. Not the ear hand, the other one. “Would you like to… shake and make up?”

She studied his hand. It was clean this time, but the nails were still ragged. “I don’t know. You were awfully rude.”

“I am sorry.” It came out too smoothly to be sincere.

Of course, the goal wasn’t to get a sincere apology, the goal was to get him to forget about her stealing his food and let her get away with it. She wasn’t even anywhere near as mad as him as she hoped she’d sounded. “Apology accepted,” she said breezily. “You didn’t know any better.”

She took his hand. It was like sticking her hand into a bowl of ice water. Eeee-yuck!

Beardy let go first, freeing her from his clammy grip. His eyes were wide. “I’ve been such a fool! You’re as human as I am!”

Something about the feel of her hand must have convinced him. She didn’t know why or what weird crazy logic in his brain made that work and she didn’t care. “Yes you have. And I am.” She dusted off her skirt. “I’ll be going then.”

“No, no, wait! Let me make it up to you.” His tone had completely changed- he sounded miserable and frantic.

“That’s really okay.”

“I’ve been such a jerk!”

He looked so upset. Maybe she’d laid it on a little thick... nah. “You have, but it’s fine.”

He started bustling around. “It’s so cold- you must be freezing, I’ll make a fire. Would you like a nice fire?”

She would actually rather like a nice fire, and Beardy didn’t seem dangerous or anything- just stupid. She hesitated. It was a long walk to her camp. Wouldn’t want to be chilled the whole way and catch cold. And a fire would feel great right now. “I guess I can stay a _few_ minutes.”

He knelt down and started the fire- he’d had one sitting there built and ready to go and just needed to light it. It was a pretty little fire, a bit smaller than she liked, but it’d do.

“I’d offer some food but that was the last of mine, in the chest,” he said apologetically. He sat down across from her, peering at her in the firelight. He started gnawing on a thumbnail, and then he remembered that he had an audience and took his hand away from his mouth with a slight blush. “So- do you want anything else? Uh- a drink of water?”

“No thank you, that’s okay,” she said. She never drank water. Nasty stuff.

“All right.” He tapped his foot. “You told me your name but I didn’t give you mine!”

 _No, because you were too busy accusing me of being some kind of succubus,_ she thought, but she didn’t say it because he looked like he was really sick over the whole thing now. No need to keep harping on it. “So what is your name?” she asked.

He cleared his throat. “Wilson P. Higgsbury.” Seriously? “I’m a scientist.”

“Nice to meet you,” she said. “A scientist, huh?” She wasn’t fond of scientists. They had some rather intrusive and repressive ideas about what was a normal way to react to fire.

“Yes, a scientist!” He flung an arm towards his machines. “I’m an accomplished inventor, even with limited resources! As you can see.”

She eyed the machines. Should she tell him she’d invented the exact same ones? Better not.

“I’m also a chemist,” he was saying. “Oh, and I had some medical school. I didn’t quite finish, but if you get injured, come to me. I know how to make splints and clean wounds. And I have some idea of what’s safe to eat!” He frowned. “Though I’ve been wrong once or twice…”

“I know that stuff too,” she said. “I was in Girl Scouts. I got a first aid badge… I got all the badges.”

“Did you?” She was half expecting him to pooh-pooh the Girl Scouts, but he looked pleased. “You probably know all sorts of helpful things!”

“I do.”

“What are you doing now? I told you about my career.” He looked her over. “College girl?”

“College?”

“You’ve got that sweater,” he pointed out. “Is red one of your school colors?”

Willow hadn’t gotten to go to college, even though she was smart enough to have aced every class and made everybody super jealous. Before the island Willow had been doing basically this right here, the campfire thing, but in an alley instead of a meadow, and with more cats. She didn’t want to say that. She also didn’t really want to make something up and have the hassle of trying to keep track of it later.

“Or if you don’t want to talk about it,” he said. Something must have shown on her face. “You don’t have to. I mean-“ He looked contrite. “You probably miss it a lot! Not everyone can just pick up their life’s work out in the middle of nowhere.”

“Yeah, I would rather not talk about it,” she said. Phew!

He nodded and looked down, twiddling his thumbs.

The fire was dying down a little and he wasn’t making a move to stoke it. Wasn’t it about time she got home to her own fire? She could make her own fire as big as she wanted. And she didn’t have anything else to say to ‘Wilson P. Higgsbury’.

“Um,” she said. “I’d better go.”

“Are- are you sure?” he asked. “It’s quite cold. And your camp must be a ways away if I’ve never come across it.”

“It’s fine! I’ve got this. It stores heat.” She took her heat rock out of her pocket and showed him.

“Ah!” He leaned forward to study it. He looked surprised. “Yes, I’ve got one of those.”

“So I’m good.”

“If you’re sure.”

“Yeah. I’ll see you around.”

“Yes…” He seemed a little deflated. “Yeah, I’ll see you, I hope…”

Maybe he would and maybe he wouldn’t. Wilson seemed like he might be a little bit crazy.

\---

Willow closed the lid of her cook pot and started it going. Inside were the last of the berries from Wilson’s stash. Today she had to go looking for more food. She did have a couple rabbits from that morning’s round of traps… but the rabbits were awfully skinny.

Maybe she’d go over to the plains and see if one of those giant, nasty, hairy buffalo-looking things could be coaxed away from the safety of the herd.

The fire was getting low. She tended to it. After putting in the last piece of wood, she raised her head. There was that _noise_ again. A low moan. Where was it coming from?

She popped to her feet. Something was crashing around in the woods. What was there? Was it the source of the moaning noise?

No, it was Wilson! Stumbling out of the undergrowth, he saw her and locked eyes. He had rough pink patches in his cheeks. She hadn’t seen him in a week.

“What are you doing here?” she sputtered. He could have followed her footprints, tracked her here, rooted out her camp. He must have done that. Maybe he’d been out here a little too long- didn’t get the concept of ‘boundaries’ anymore.

“You?” His eyes slid off of her face and onto her fire. “This is your camp?” His voice dropped to a moan. “Ohhh, _noooo…”_

He hadn’t tracked her after all. He hadn’t even expected her to be here. “Yeah, maybe! Why?”

He ran to her, took her arm. “There’s no need to panic. But you need to run. Right now. Come along, now. Come on.” He tugged her a little.

She did not move. “Is it dogs? You can fight dogs.” She didn’t see why she had to leave her fire.

She turned her head. There was that moaning sound again. It was coming from the woods Wilson had just scrambled out of.

“There’s nothing to lose one’s head over,” he said, “but perhaps you ought to just come with me.”

“What-“ She stopped. The ground had just trembled under her feet.

“Please?” he squawked.

The trees were moving again, but higher up, up in the branches, not down low at human height like before Wilson had showed up.

She had to tip her head straight back to see it. It was taller than the pines. It looked ridiculous! Ungainly, top-heavy, its single eye and deer antlers and fangs all jumbled together like a child’s drawing.

It roared. It was coming towards them.

Wilson was running at the monster. That seemed normal at first, like nothing she even needed to think about. Then she got irritated because he was taking first shot at that thing, and he was going to look braver than her (but who were they trying to impress? Maxwell?) And then, too late, she realized- that thing was fifty times his size. He was going to die. He was going to die very quickly.

“Wait!” she cried.

The monster made a growling, peevish noise, and it drew back to strike- it flailed with its arms, smacking the ground. It looked ungainly and dumb but it would smash Wilson like a bug nevertheless.

He dodged just in time, though, hitting at its ankles and diving around behind it. He was going to get away, she thought.

The monster reared up to hit him again. He didn’t get away.

It didn’t hit him full on- it didn’t crush him into a red jelly- it did clip his side, and that was enough. He was knocked through the air at a dizzying speed, and his head hit a tree, and then he was just a dark shape in the snow.

But the thing wasn’t done. He wasn’t moving, but the monster was going to mash his body. Even though he was dead. Just to hurt him out of spite.

“Get away from him you fat ugly _butt!”_ she yelled, running at it with her spear.

It turned its glaring eye to her.

Now what? Oh, now what, she couldn’t just stab it to death! She couldn’t even reach above the thing’s ankles! She was too little!

But there were things here bigger than her, oh yes, plenty of them. And she’d been planning to pay them a visit even before this monster had shown up, hadn’t she?

“Come on, jerk,” she huffed, running deeper into the forest. “You’re not even making me go out of your way for you.”

She was faster and nimbler than Wilson, and this was really kind of fun, wasn’t it, kind of exhilarating, she was alive and there and she was going to stay alive, and every blow was going to hit the ground just at her heels but never hit her.

The monster bellowed behind her as she butted right into the smelly herd of the bovine beasts.

She didn’t dare look back. She heard a crash behind her, followed by a pounding of hooves and a chorus of bass yells as the herd stampeded. Then and only then she looked back- she couldn’t help it.

The deer monster was being swarmed by buffalo monsters on all sides. It was penned in.

Nice work, Willow, she said to herself. She swung around the fracas to run back to her camp, staying well clear of all the horns flashing around.

She was heaving for breath now, but she tried to go back at the same pace, or faster. She’d had a thought- what if- what if Wilson wasn’t dead? She hadn’t seen how bad he was hurt. Maybe he’d just been knocked out. In that case, he was lying in the snow with the heat seeping out of his body by the minute, and if he wasn’t dead yet he could be by the time she got back if she wasn’t fast. He needed a fire!

When she got back, he wasn’t in the same spot anymore. She found a big swath of disturbed snow, a small patch of vomit and a series of footprints.

She found him leaning against a tree trunk, catching his breath. His forehead was red and glistening. The blow to his head had popped open a line of skin along his hairline.

She took a step towards him and stopped. She was all tensed up. It felt wrong, seeing this man she barely knew in pain and heaving for air. She had a sudden urge to turn away and she didn’t know if it was because she thought he’d be embarrassed or because she was embarrassed.

This was no time for anyone to be embarrassed.

“Hey,” she said.

Wilson jumped a little. “Where did he go?” He was slurring a little. His eyes were uncertain and unfocused.

“Don’t worry, I took care of that big old meanie,” she said.

“You did?” He sounded shocked. “You went after that thing? It was the size of a zeppelin! Are you okay?”

She didn’t know what to think of this. He was obviously hurt and he was saying he was worried about her. “I’m fine! He was no trouble. A pussycat, really.” Of course, he looked like he might need some help, and he wouldn’t get help if she was hurt too, so it wasn’t really a selfless concern.

Wilson rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I can’t believe I led that thing right to you!”

“I thought you didn’t know I was here.”

“No, I didn’t. And yet somehow I led it to you anyway!” He sounded faintly disgusted. “You could have died because I ran left instead of right!”

Perhaps his concern was due to some kind of weird self-blame stemming from his massive ego. He couldn’t be overly worried about her as a person. He didn’t know her. “I didn’t die. I’m fine! You got kinda beat up though, huh?”

“It’s… nothing much, I guess,” he said uncertainly, touching his scalp. His fingers came away bloody and he frowned at them. “It doesn’t feel great but I don’t think it’s serious. Probably a minor concussion. I would stay in bed for a few days if I had a bed…”

Concussion was one thing she hadn’t learned any first aid for, unfortunately. “Why did you run right at it?”

“I was trying to get it away from you! I’ve gotten good at dodging. I didn’t expect it to hit me.” He sounded sullen.

He was shaking. She’d been talking to him in the snow instead of getting him somewhere warm. “You must be freezing! Would you like to sit by my fire and warm up?”

“If you d-don’t mind.” He shuffled forward, swayed drunkenly, and stopped in his tracks.

She swallowed and offered her arm. “Would you like some help?”

“I…” He raised one hand, as if he were going to take her arm. But he didn’t- he shook his head. “No, I’m f-fine.”

“Ya sure? I know the fireman’s carry.”

“You definitely don’t need to carry me!”

He did manage to walk to her camp on his own, though he moved like an old man.

She made the fire nice and big and hot. He sat down by it, shivering with his eyes closed.

His head looked pretty gruesome. That ought to be cleaned up. She put some snow in her cooking bowl and started to melt it by the fire. “Nice and warm now?” she asked.

He was holding his hands over the flames. “Getting there. Thank you.”

“Want me to help you get back home before it gets dark? Back to your camp, I mean?”

He glowered into the fire. “I don’t have a camp any longer. That thing tore it all up.”

“Tore it up?”

“It deliberately smashed everything I’ve built,” he said clearly.

Now what in the world would any animal do that for? Normal animals didn’t just wreck things. This was a _mean_ animal. “What an absolute jerk! What _was_ that thing?”

“I don’t know. Maxwell must have sent it.” His eyes were dull. “I can rebuild it. I should already have all the materials… but… at the moment it’s all gone.” He rubbed his nose, looking down. “All of it.”

So he didn’t have a camp anymore… and he was in no shape to build one right now.

She glanced up at the sky. She could maybe help him cobble something together, but it was getting dark. And his camp had been kind of far away, too far for him to limp to tonight anyway, she’d reckon.

The water in the bowl was boiling. She took it off the fire and cooled it off in the snow. She took out a clean piece of spider silk.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

She gave him the bowl and the piece of silk. “Your head’s all bloody.”

“Oh!” He blinked. “Oh, yes, it is! Thank you.” He dabbed the silk into the water and pressed it to his forehead, wincing. He looked pathetic.

She took a deep breath. “Do you want to sleep here tonight?”

“Sleep here?” He hesitated. “Would that be okay?”

“Yeah. You can use my mat.”

“Are you sure?” Wilson wrung out the gory piece of silk into the bowl. Now that the blood was gone she could see that the tree bark had skinned off a huge chunk of his forehead. Cosmetically, there wasn’t much improvement.

“I really don’t mind if you stay here. It’s fine.” She minded a little, but she didn’t mind as much as she minded the thought of the guy getting torn limb from limb because he was wandering around in the dark with a busted head and no camp.

“That’s very kind of you. I accept,” he said. He tipped the water- now a murky red- out of the bowl into the snow, and looked uncertainly at the soiled silk.

“That’s all nasty now. Just put it in the fire.” She stood up. “Do you want anything to eat?”

“No, actually… I don’t feel so well.”

“Gee, sorry to hear it.” She wasn’t going to coax him to eat, she didn’t have a ton of supplies and all. “You should try to get some sleep.” She got the mat for him and rolled it out. Once that was situated she got her meatballs out of the cook pot- they had finished sometime while she was running away from the giant deer thing and now they were cold.

He lay down on the mat and arranged himself into a semi-comfortable position. “Thanks for the mat.”

“You’re welcome. Good night, Wilson.”

He sounded a little surprised when he answered. “G’night Willow.”

Why the surprise? Hm, she barely knew the guy- maybe he expected her to call him Mr. Higgsbury. That had never occurred to her- ‘Wilson’ suited him too well. A short fussy little name.

“Sweet dreams,” she said.

\---

Willow woke up with a start. She always woke up the minute the sun started to rise. Its haze of light on the horizon greeted her now.

She hadn’t expected to be able to fall asleep with a stranger in her camp. It didn’t feel all that weird to have Wilson around after all... he was a little annoying and fretful, but he seemed entirely harmless. And he hadn’t said anything about her legs since that initial incident.

She looked over at him, lying on his mat on the other side of the fire pit. He was conked out but good.

Wait, weren’t you supposed to wake up people with concussions every so often so they didn’t go into a coma and die?

She went up to him and shook his shoulder. He cried out like she’d hurt him. She jumped back.

He sat up, moaning.

“Uh, good morning,” she said, talking really bright and friendly as if nothing had happened. “How are you doing?” She hadn’t shaken him hard or anything, had she?

He climbed up to sit on the tree stump she’d left by her fire pit for a seat. “I’m doing awful.” He gingerly touched the side of his chest. “I think my ribs are broken.”

Oh… no wonder he’d yelped. “Gee, sorry…”

He rubbed his eyes, scowling. “Sorry for what?”

“Hm, nothing, I guess.” She hadn’t meant to hurt him- no reason to beat herself up over it. “So,” she said, “why don’t we help you with your camp today?”

“Sure.”

“Then you can go home.”

He sparked off at that. “That collection of rocks and sticks is not my home. It’s not even all that comfortable.”

“It’s the best you’ve got right now,” she said calmly.

“I know that.” He scuffed at the ground with one foot. “But it ain’t home.”

“Well geez. What do you think I’m gonna do, say ‘that camp thing you knocked together’ or ‘that collection of rocks and sticks’ every time?”

“I guess not.” He propped his chin on his fist and looked gloomy.

She could do with some breakfast. She dug the skinny, frozen, dead rabbits she’d caught yesterday out of her chest. She had skinned and cleaned them before freezing them. All that was left was to add the fire.

Willow started thawing the rabbits. Wilson watched out of the corner of his eye. He did not ask for food.

With the rabbits thawed, Willow started to cook them. Wilson continued to watch. His stomach was growling. She could hear it quite clearly. He wasn’t asking for food, though, so maybe-

She sighed. Obviously, he wanted something to eat but thought it would be rude to ask. He was waiting for her to offer.

She had two rabbits… “Do you want one?”

“Yes.”

Not even a ‘if you don’t mind’ this time, just ‘yes’. “Okay.”

She transferred one of the rabbits to another skewer and handed it to him.

He nibbled on his food with a strange look on his face. Geez, if he complained about the food, she was gonna pop him one, broken ribs or not.

Instead: “It’s good,” he said.

He was avoiding her gaze. Hmm…

“It’s- it’s really good.” He sniffled.

She would just look at her food, she decided.

She looked down at her food until it was finished. He sniffled a few times and blew his nose into… something, she didn’t look up to see what. His sleeve, maybe. Ick.

He’d been lying knocked out in the snow yesterday. Might have a cold.

She burned the food juices off of her skewer.

“Thanks for the food,” he said. He looked wilted.

“You’re welcome!” She almost added ‘any time’ but didn’t. “So, let’s get your camp set back up while there’s still daylight, huh?”

“Yes, all right.” He didn’t seem too enthused.

\---

They didn’t talk much on the way to his camp. Wilson scowled the whole way.

Standing in the rubble, she could understand why he was being a crabbypants. “Gee,” she said. He’d had a cook pot, a tent, a couple of machines and like three chests full of stuff. Now he had… rocks. And boards. And charcoal. Quite a few sticks.

Wilson scuffed at the ground and said nothing. In the silence, the wind howled. A frigid sound.

She noticed a red smear nearby in the snow and took a closer look. Squashed berries. It seemed to her that that smear was the only evidence of food around here.

Wilson started wandering around, picking up debris and putting it back down. He didn’t seem to know where to start.

“Start with a fire pit, ‘cuz it’s cold,” she volunteered. “Then do the cook pot.” Though there was nothing to put in a cook pot at the moment…

“Right,” he said, and then just stood there staring at the rubble.

“Well… I have a lot of work to do,” she said, “so…”

“Yes. Thanks for your help. I’ll see you around,” he mumbled.

She glanced back at him as she walked away. He was standing there staring at the ground.

She was heading for the plains. She’d bet that old deer goon took down at least one of the buffalo things. There’d be meat for the taking.

Five buffalo things lay dead on the ground. _Five._ And beyond them, a mountain of fur.

She approached it carefully, in case it was asleep. It wasn’t asleep. Its one eyeball had come out of its skull and was lying on the ground. A thin layer of frost had collected on the pupil.

The eyeball looked for all the world like it was staring at her through the ice. She kicked it. It spun away like a soccer ball. _Groooossss._

Willow looked up into the eye socket. It looked like her whole head could fit in here! She was weirdly tempted to try it.

She did not try it.

Gee, that was gonna be a lot of meat though. Wonderful!

\---

By the time all of that meat was butchered, it was getting dark. 

Back at Wilson’s camp, he had scratched together a fire pit and a spear. Nothing else. He was sitting by the fire when she wandered in. He was holding his ribs and looked a little green.

“Well!” she said, surveying the lone flame flickering among the rubble. “That’s a good start, huh?”

He turned big, dark, frightened eyes up to her. “Do you hear that?”

“Do I hear what?” She listened. And then she did hear it. Distant barking.

“Ooooh dear.” She looked back at Wilson. He was frowning and massaging his side. “Well, you can fight dogs.”

“Right, that’s precisely why I made the spear,” he said, and continued to massage his side.

“How are you doing, there?”

“Oh, it’s only two ribs at the most.” He was trembling. “I’ll be okay. I’ve made it this long!”

Another distant bark. His head whipped around and he swallowed a noise of pain.

There were plenty of buffalo thingies left wandering around out there. “C’mon,” she said. “I guess I’ll be nice and fix this too.”

She led him out onto the plains.

“Ah, yes, the beefalo,” he said.

“Beefalo?”

“I call them beefalo…”

Sure! Why not.

She led him into the middle of a thick group of, um, beefalo. It was getting dark- she pulled out her lighter.

Wilson looked around at the smelly beasts. “They stink, don’t they?”

“Uh huh. Shh.”

He got quiet. The first hound ran up and took a big bite out of a beefalo butt. The beefalo turned and smashed it flat.

“Oh!” Wilson said. “That’s clever.”

“I know, I think of everything.” He was chilled- she could feel the cold radiating through his shoulder even though they weren’t quite touching. She thought of him sitting huddled and addled by his fire pit alone all night while the things that were in the dark prowled all around him.

Poor little duck. “Want to stay with me again?”

“Uh… I would like that… if it’s not too much trouble.”

“Nawwww. It’s okay. I don’t mind.”

“Well, then, I’d love to!”

She heard the yelp of a dog in pain as another hound bit the dust somewhere behind her.

“How long do you think it’s going to take you to rebuild your camp?” she asked.

He tilted his head, considering. “Hmm. Well, it took me since… about spring to put it together. Most of that was collecting materials and figuring out what to make and how, though, so… I’m not sure…”

“You’ve been here since _spring?”_

“Yes."

Since spring. Since… spring. That was a long time.

“The basics for living,” he said, “should only take a few days, I think.”

She drummed her fingers on her knee. “Well, you can stay for tonight.”

“Okay.”

“Just for tonight.”

“That’s very generous. Thanks.”

**One Month Later**

Willow woke up to the familiar haze of dawn on the horizon and something else. Dripping water!

Ick!

But wait. That meant the snow was melting!

She sat up and looked all around. There were biiiig bare patches of grass all over!

“Wilson!” she yelled. He didn’t like being woken up at dawn but she couldn’t help it. “Wilson!”

He scrambled out of his tent with his hair going in every direction at once. “What? What is it?”

She pointed to the nearest bare patch. “It’s spring! We made it!”

He blinked at the bare patch. “It’s a thaw!”

“Winter is over!”

In his most maddeningly reasonable tone he said: “Well, sometimes there are thaws in winter and then it snows again.”

“Winter is over!” she repeated.

He rubbed his eyes. “It’s still dark out.”

“I wanted to show you winter is over.”

“If it is spring, the rains will come,” he mused. “Then I ought to make some umbrellas today! Straw hats, too. I wonder if there’s anything more effective I could make… some sort of raincoat…”

She was silent. Rain? Nasty.

“If it’s spring I’ve been here a whole year!” he observed.

“What was wrong with ‘winter is over’?” she asked.

“What was wrong with letting me sleep?”

She snorted. “What was wrong with having your own camp on the other side of the island?”

“I can’t move out now, you’ll have no one to wake up in the middle of the night.” He yawned- it was a squeaky sound. Kind of a like a cat’s yawn.

Yeah, he was never going to rebuild his camp. Turned out, men were a lot like cats. Once you gave them food and comfort, she thought, they kinda stuck around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: I took some liberties with how easy it is to get the hounds' attention locked onto other targets for simplicity's sake. I didn't think it would be any more entertaining if I added something like 'and then they wandered around for a while until the hounds figured out there were beefalo to bite'.


	23. Giving Up; or, Wilson Is Useless

A low, round, flat rock, deep black and faintly reflective, with writing he did not recognize etched into the surface.

It had been shattered when he had first found it. He had squatted down to examine it, reached to pick up the fragments, and at his touch it had reformed itself. That had all been very exciting at the moment, but three days and a few pig men and monster trees later, Wilson didn’t care anymore.

He only cared that he was chilled to the bone and the rock was warm. Some comfort at the end. He sat down on it and stretched his arms over his head, rolled the kinks out of his neck, and finally took the piece of wood out of his pocket and turned it over.

On one side of the plate of wood he had scrawled some musings with a piece of charcoal. Not perhaps the most productive use of his time, but he’d been in the habit of writing a daily journal for years and he had missed it. The charcoal had already began to smudge off, but he could reconstruct the missing words from memory.

_Twelfth day after arrival_

_The little mole-creatures that burrow in the soil here somehow live on rocks! A brief dissection has revealed extremely strong digestive acid and a tough stomach wall. It did not reveal how the creature is able to obtain nutrients from minerals._

_Unfortunately, there’s not much meat on moleworms and soon there won’t be much meat on me either._

Alas, what a young fool he had been that week ago! Imagine, spending all that time on such a frivolous thing as researching moleworms when the world was so vast, cruel and devoid of human kindness.

Wilson turned the plate over. For this, he wanted something a bit more permanent than charcoal. He picked up his knife and began to dig letters into the surface of the wood.

_Abandon hope, ye who have entered here. There is no way to survive this place. The food is scarce, the wildlife is violent and it rains so much that you’ll catch your death if nothing catches you first._

_The skeleton before you_

Here Wilson hesitated, wondering how much time he ought to devote to eulogizing himself to a stranger that may never come, on a tablet that might rot away or be eaten by some other animal with a strange diet.

These were his last moments on Earth- hmm, well- his last moments alive, at least- and Wilson was going to spend them how he wanted to. And since no one else was around to do it, he was going to write himself a decent farewell speech.

_was once a brilliant man and a gifted scientist. Had he lived, he would have enriched the world with his genius. But this wretched soul fell prey to a cruel, evil trick… as have you, if you are reading this._

Carving was hard work and his hand was beginning to cramp. Wilson sighed aloud. Did he really have to do commas?

Yes, he did. He was going to do this up right, darn it.

_Dear reader, you have my sympathies. I would say that we might meet in Hell… but you are already there!_

A bit dramatic, but a dying man could be forgiven some excitement.

Wilson neatly arranged the contents of his pockets in a little pile and set the note on top of it. He took off his shoes- no special reason, only they were wet and uncomfortable from stepping in puddles- and lay down on his back on top of the black stone. It was surprisingly comfortable for a rock.

This might take a while. He’d had plenty of water to drink from the rain and wasn’t dehydrated in the least... it would take about a week for him to die from thirst. And even with his meager diet it would take longer than that to starve. However, he suspected that he would shortly contract pneumonia, or perhaps meet with that thing that lurked in the darkness. Or maybe the hounds would come back. Or something entirely new would show up. Dying of thirst was the least likely scenario, in other words.

One hand rested on his chest, in the little hollow on the left where a full complement of ribs had once been.

He had been expected to die six years ago… he hadn’t died then. ‘Won’t see his thirtieth birthday’, his family had whispered. And yet, he had managed to turn thirty just a few weeks ago! He’d had a little cupcake up in his lab with a candle on it and he’d fed some crumbs to his rats.

Ah… real food…

But anyway. Not that one could precisely take credit for responding to medical treatment, but… it did seem a shame that he had borne all of that (and really been _very_ lucky!) only to die here.

What was there to be done about it? He was a scientist, not Robinson Crusoe. There would be no rescue, not here. It was only a matter of time.

Wilson drew the line at actively killing himself, but he saw no need to waste his energy in a lost cause either.

He closed his eyes.

\---

A bird was singing.

Wilson stirred and rubbed his eyes. The sun had come out and was shining with full force on his outstretched body. The powerful rays had baked the lingering clammy dampness out of his hair and clothing.

Another bird sang. Judging by the angle of the sun it was morning. He’d slept right through the hours of the night monster.

His stomach tightened and made a wet yowling noise. Wilson briefly considered eating shoe-leather and decided against it. The experience was unlikely to be worth the inconvenience of going barefoot, for one thing.

He sat up, yawning. Maybe some of the berry bushes had grown fresh crops, or perhaps there was something in one of his basket traps…

Wait a minute, hadn’t he decided to die just a few hours ago?

Wilson sat on the edge of the weird black stone and thought things over for a minute. Yesterday, in the rain, it had seemed so _reasonable_ to lie down and die. But now the sun was shining, and he was hungry.

He’d thought all of this over very thoroughly. There was no _point_ in living just to eat and keep himself alive- so he could get hungry again and find more food and eventually be killed anyway.

It was uncomfortable to be hungry. He wanted to eat.

“Survival instincts,” Wilson said aloud to nobody, and was answered by his complaining stomach.

There didn’t seem to be any good meat on the pig heads that surrounded this stone but perhaps the skins would be edible. Or perhaps not.

Wilson licked the tips of his fingers (mm, salt) and began to rearrange his hair, a habit of his upon waking up that he carried on even though no one here could see his hair.

He had a sense that someone was laughing at him. Maxwell, perhaps. Well, right there was a reason for living if he chose to take it: to spite Maxwell.

He looked up at the singing bird. It was a redbird. Surprisingly normal, and really rather pretty. It seemed to look right at him and it chirped again.

Maybe he was thinking about this the wrong way. It was useless to hope for rescue or to expect to stumble across civilization on the island, that much was true. But he had brought himself here, after a fashion, and maybe he could bring himself back if he held out long enough!

Besides, if he already wanted to go look for food, he wasn’t as ready to die as he’d thought.

Wilson stood up and brushed himself off. He gathered up his things and put his shoes back on. He was not sure at first what to do with his suicide note. It didn’t seem as if it would be very useful without a skeleton next to it. It might be rather useful as fuel for a campfire. If he didn’t desire to catch pneumonia he would have to do better at staying warm and dry.

He took the piece of wood and tucked it into his pockets.

And if he didn’t want to get discouraged and develop more (really rather juvenile by daylight) ideas about dying, he ought to do something to keep his spirits up. He wandered away humming a snatch of a tune.

In three weeks he would find out that dying on top of a touch stone wouldn’t have accomplished anything anyway.


	24. Charlie; or, A Most Agreeable New Monarch, But Most Deadly As Well!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is decidedly not in the same continuity as the others. It has a surprise pairing. Actually it has two pairings but only one of them is a surprise, the other one is plain old Maxwell/Charlie. (If you follow my Tumblr you know what the other one is and you’ve already clicked off in disgust, no doubt.)
> 
> And while I’m being experimental and silly, I decided to write this in FIRST PERSON! Which is probably a step above the second person tense I’ve used before. 
> 
> OH: This has massive spoilers if you haven't seen the 'A New Reign' cinematic.

_Cuz I’d be better off dead_

_Than livin’ without you_

-80s Teen Classic Film “Better Off Dead” starring John Cusack

He’s gone off his food the past few days. Not entirely, but enough so that I have more. I like to have more. If there’s one thing I can’t get enough of, it’s having more. It’s why I ended up here, I’d say.

There’s usually a drawback to having more. He’s been looking a bit off. A bit pink in the cheeks. Bright in the eyes. I think my old pal Mr. Higgsbury might be coming down with something. Oh, dear. How very unfortunate.

Hold on, that really is unfortunate. I’m living in his camp. I’m breathing his air. If he’s got a bug, I’m going to have it too. Blasted fool! He probably caught it running after fireflies in the rain or whatever other stupid things he does.

So, what am I to do about it? If I had the power to heal before… don’t know whether I did or not, I never cared to try it… I don’t anymore. That kind of thing isn’t my style anyway.

If he’s ill, I suppose I’ll just have to exile him from his own camp. He’ll make a fuss, but that’s too bad. He shouldn’t have gotten ill. That’s decided, then.

But wait. Wilson makes the food. If I kick him out, I’ll have to make my own food. Why, I’ll even have to hunt it myself. Gather it! That’s not my job. That’s a peasant’s job.

Maybe he’s not ill. He seems lively enough.

I think that’s him coming back now. Of course it is, who else would it be? Even from back here I can see it’s too short to be a pig man or one of the giants, and a bird wouldn’t come here. Nothing else walks on two legs around here save myself. It’s just him and me. My, but that gets claustrophobic.

Of course, she is here too… but best not think about that right now. I’d better figure out what’s gone wrong with my favorite minion.

Looks like he wants something from the chest. Rude. He hasn’t even looked at me.

I will clear my throat.

…He’s not listening. “Wilson.”

Ah, that got his attention. People’s names usually do. Hm, would you look at that, he’s shaved. It’s not much of an improvement.

“What do you want?” he asks.

I lean against his science machine. It’s bumpy. Warm from the sun, warm against my back. “Remember when you died of pneumonia? That was entertaining. Can you remind me of how it started?”

“Er… what? Why are you asking me about that?” He’s frowning at me, I believe. Hard to tell from here. I don’t have my glasses. “You’re not getting sick, are you?” He sighs as if he’s the one who’s been saddled with a petulant brat. “You’re a lot of trouble, you know.”

“I am fit as a fiddle. But you have me worried, pal.” I’ll have to move a little closer if I want a good look at him… here we go. He looks awfully suspicious. I don’t believe he likes to be peered at. He also seems utterly normal at the moment.

“What would you be worried about me for?” He’s sidling away.

“You don’t look so good.” He’s fluffing himself up in aggression. I think that phrase triggered a flashback. I should rephrase. “I mean, you’re looking ill lately.”

“I feel fine,” he says, still squinting at me. “I feel really good, all things considered.”

“That in itself worries me.”

“Why?”

“I carefully engineered every atom of the ground you are standing on and the air you are breathing to inspire in you a deep-seated existential dread. You should not be feeling ‘really good’.”

My ‘pal’ has a little quirk of cocking his head, squinting one eye and smirking when he feels superior, which is unwarrantedly often. He’s doing it right now.  It’s annoying.

“You’re giving me a lecture because you’re concerned that I might be happy and you want me to knock it off,” he says.

Talking to him might just be turning out to be a waste of my valuable time. “I’m concerned because there is no reason for you to be happy. If you’re not miserable, you probably have some kind of brain fever. Also, you hardly touched your breakfast.”

“I wasn’t hungry. So sorry to have concerned you, mother.” He turns back to whatever he’s doing in the chest. “And why shouldn’t I be happy? At the rate our work is going I might be home by Christmas! Do you remember Christmas, Maxwell?”

Did he honestly just ask me that without sarcasm? I think he might have. “Yes, I remember it. I’m more for Halloween myself.”

“Of course you are. I used to be fond of Halloween until I had my own house.” He glowers. “Now it’s a holiday for tiny vandals.” This makes me realize how much I would love to egg Wilson’s house. “But anyhow! We’re going to need more supplies.”

“So go get them.”

“Ah, now hold on a moment, Maxwell.” He stands up, puts his hands on his hips and turns to face me. “You like to talk about how this is your world. Your trees. Your logs. Your grass.”

“Where are you going with this?”

“Perhaps you could go and get some of your trees yourself for once.”

But there are spiders in those woods. And me without my evil powers! Not to mention that tree-chopping is a bit beneath me, but sometimes we all have to do things we’d rather not. But the spiders… and the shadows lurking between the trees… “You want to displease me, Wilson?”

He raises his eyebrows and says nothing.

I study my nails. They look dreadful, naturally. No manicurists out here, and there are some things Wilson just will not do. “I thought we discussed this. I have the plans and the knowledge you need. I need to spend all my time cogitating.”

“Personally, I have the ability to think and chop at the same time,” Wilson says, “but I _am_ unusually intelligent.”

“If you really can’t handle a simple job like this on your own,” I say, “perhaps we can compromise. I will fashion the logs into boards if you bring them here. I’m a better craftsman anyway.” Just as long as he’s the one who goes into the woods.

I made this world to chew up people and spit ‘em out. And now I’m people. Poor planning on my part.

“But- oh, come on! I need a break from chopping. I’m not built for this sort of thing any more than you are. My back is killing me. I can’t sleep at night.”

Where’s this coming from? I’ve been watching him survive here for… who knows how long. He never complained of sissy problems like backache.

“I thought you were feeling fantastic,” I counter.

“I said ‘all things considered’-“

“You’re young, you’re in your prime. You don’t need an old mastermind like me helping you out. Besides, aren’t you used to doing things for yourself by now?”

“But now you’re here. Not only do you create more work but you could lighten my load by half whenever you wanted and you just will not do it. You refuse to do it.” He’s actually stamping his foot like a child.

“I do plenty around here. I catch birds, I-“

“All of that is _fun!_ Whenever there’s something strenuous and boring to do, you force me to do it. Like I’m your slave. And I have to do it because I wanna go home sometime before I die! Sometimes I feel that- that nothing has changed between us whatsoever.” He gathers some things in his arms from the chest. I can’t see what.

“I’d say something’s changed, I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Yeah, lucky me. Good day to you. I’m off to do your job.”

What an absolute ninny!

You don’t get to know everything about a guy, watching him survive on his own. I’m not the biggest fan of Wilson P. Higgsbury but I did think he had grit. Gumption. I mean, he’s here and he’s not dead! But that just now was definitely what I’d call a child’s tantrum.

I’m peckish. I forgot to ask him to make me some food before he left. Now I have to do it. Ugh.

\---

He’s been gone for a few hours now.

I’ve done what I said, I’ve made the logs we had into boards. I always keep my promises, after a fashion.

Chances are low that he won’t come back. I would assume, anyway. He’s a forgiving sort. More than that, he’s needy. And where else would he _go?_

There he is now. Yep.

“Hello, Maxwell.” He’s not even cross with me any longer. He sounds as if he’s barely remembered that I’m here.

I’m seated on the ground and he’s standing, so for once I’m looking up at him. “Did you get the logs?”

“Yes, in fact. I did. One of us is going to have to do the work if we ever hope to leave your little anti-paradise… and if it must be me, than me it shall be.”

He’s got something red in one hand.

“What’ve you got there?” Looks too light to be anything with a gem on it.

He comes closer. “This?” He’s twirling it in his fingers. It’s…

It’s a rose. But it can’t be a rose.

“Where did you get that?”

“I found it.” He brushes the petals with his thumb. He’s close enough for me to see him clearly. I don’t think he’s seeing me in return, his eyes are glazed over.

“There aren’t any roses here.” I should know.

“There weren’t before! They must be new. They’re _awfully_ pretty.” It matches his face. I could swear Wilson has never looked this pink.

I thought I would never see one of those flowers again. “Give it here, let me look at it.”

“Oh no no it’s mine.” He holds it to his chest. “I mean, uh…” He laughs, embarrassed. “I like roses. It’s harmless… you could find one of your own if you ever left camp!”

I could smack it out of his hand... but that would be beneath me. “Here’s an idea, pal. If it’s new, and you don’t know what it is, and you don’t know where it came from, don’t play with it.”

“I know precisely what it is! A rose.” He goes to the cookpot. “And it grew in the ground. And I’m fond of it, so I’ll keep it.” He tucks it behind his ear and instantly looks like a complete idiot.

“Listen, you fool…”

What to say? He didn’t know Charlie. I don’t care to tell him about her. And my reasoning is a little flimsy, here. Charlie liked roses and now there are roses. Does that imply that Charlie caused the roses? Doubtful. But the roses could still be dangerous. Just because it looks safe doesn’t mean it is.

All I know for sure is I don’t like this. I should have known everything was going too well.

Wilson is speaking. “I forgot to make you lunch, didn’t I?”

I don’t care for his giddy manner, either. Either he’s delirious or there’s something he’s not telling me.

Anyway, he did forget to make me lunch. I made myself a little something, but if he knows I know how to use the cook pot, he won’t make my food anymore…

Wilson is feeling the stone pot with the back of his hand. “This is warm already! And I smell meatballs. You’ve already made something, haven’t you?”

Jig’s up. “Yes.”

His stomach makes a noise. He continues to blush. “Come to think of it, _I_ haven’t eaten much today.” He begins to prepare something.

“I made the boards,” I say.

“Oh good for you.”

He starts his food cooking and… what is that _noise?_ What is that dreadful sound he’s making?

“Are you _humming?”_

He stops. “Are you going to tell me I can’t hum?”

He doesn’t get it. He absolutely does not get it. Even after being in the throne for a while. Now, that is a special kind of obtuse.

I walk up to him and clap a hand on his skinny shoulder. It doesn’t feel hot, even though he still looks pink and starry-eyed. “Pal, this is a deeply unhappy place. This is not a world made for humming. Just don’t hum.”

He has the audacity to snort at me.

I am almost disappointed, I find, that he’s not feverish. An illness would have been inconvenient but what’s really going on with him may be far more sinister.

Something else is off here. “Your hair’s damp.”

“I took a bath. Sort of.”

“…How?” Why? Hygiene is a wonderful thing, but we don’t have a lot of time to play with here.

“There’s a river…”

Roses. Rivers. “There shouldn’t be one. I never made a river.”

Wilson shrugs.

Charlie or not, something is changing things around here and I don’t like it. We need to get out fast. Well, to be more accurate, I need to get out fast, and Wilson can tag along if there’s a way for him to do so or he can stay here and die. Whatever. “You know, pal, you’re right.”

“So I am. Right about what?”

“It isn’t fair to you to let you do all of this work.” I almost sound plausible to myself. Almost. “I should be stepping up to the plate more.”

“Yes! Making your own meals is already a bit of a help.”

“I’m going to make sure we’re home by Christmas,” I say.

“Wonderful! My family’s certainly missed me by now. I’ll be glad to see them again.”

Family. I had one of them once. What year will we end up in? Wilson never told me what time he’d left from, blast him. Inconsiderate’s what he is.

I doubt I have a family to worry about anymore.

His food’s finished. He perches on a log and eats quickly and distractedly, leaving me about half of it. I graciously accept. He pops to his feet.

“Well I’m off,” he says.

“It’s almost dark!”

“I’ll bring a torch.”

“But- pal, we need to work on the-“

“You just said you were willing to do your share. I have more to gather, so… here.” He dumps out the materials from his backpack. “Here you go. You can do your share right here. And if you finish before I get back, go chop some trees for us. I’ll be seeing you!”

That seems a bit… inconsistent. Men do go mad out here… Wilson’s not the first guy I grabbed. And this isn’t even the first Wilson. Not by a long shot.

I’m still hoping the problem lies somewhere with him- brain, mind or body- and isn’t a sign that other forces are getting involved.

They won’t want to let us go. What’s left of us, I mean.

\---

I seem to have dozed off. More fool me. I’m lucky I didn’t wake up screaming- and with Wilson there to see it.

Doesn’t seem that he’s here, though. It’s just me and the fire.

Ah, and distant sounds… hound sounds. Great. This is wonderful. I love hound days. They are my favorites. Hooray.

So Wilson’s not here and the hounds are coming. Maybe they’ll all go to him… but I can’t count on that. Better get my sword.

Here comes the first one. Its body is so heavy and tough. Something goes right out of me every time I hit it. The next. Blood, hot, not sure whose it is. Oh, the stench of them! I did this. I caused this. Why? Why was I such a fool? I can’t run. I can’t leave the light!

The hound falls. That was it. That was the last one. But there were three, I see three bodies. Three bodies with the marks of my sword in them. I never even saw the third one, or never knew that I saw it, but I killed it… somehow. I must have.

The sword is sending vibrations up my arm. I cannot hold it any longer.

Where is he? Where is that stupid, worthless little man? He should have been helping me.

These animals, their bodies, will have to be disposed of. There is meat on them, but it’s disgusting meat…

“Maxwell!”

Wilson. That was not a cry for help, it was a cry of despair. I know the tone well, he wants help, but he believes it won’t come. Too late?

If he dies, he won’t be here anymore. I won’t be able to bring him back. I’ll be alone. I need a torch- I must find him.

No, here he is! Bursting into the light. With a hound at his heels. My sword!

The hound is weak, bleeding and barely alive. Now it is not alive. I am out of breath. Too old for this nonsense. For the second time I need to drop the sword. 

He is sprawled by the fire, also out of breath. He is liberally doused with blood.

“I didn’t have armor,” he laments. “I’m injured- where is the amulet?”

“We have no amulets, you _fool.”_

“Oh…”

“Where are you bleeding?”

He gestures to his shoulder. I make a cursory examination. There are three deep lacerations there, mostly hidden at first by shredded clothing.

He trembles at my touch. “That hurts.”

The hound did not do this. “Why were you out after dark, you blithering idiot? You shouldn’t be alive. You won’t be much longer, I’d say.” That’s a lot of blood.

“I think…” His speech is uneven.  “I think someone else is here, Maxwell!”

“Someone else?” There is, of course. Does he know? How does he know? Does he know about Charlie, or about the puppets on the other islands?

His eyes are wide. “A woman. She lives in the dark, and she… she’s ill, or something. Ah… oh, that smarts!” I’m chucking some salve into the wounds as he speaks. Has the double benefit of keeping him alive a bit longer, hopefully, and also punishing him for his foolishness with the sting of it.

“The stinging means it’s working, remember?”

“How do you… oh, never mind. The woman. She’s not… I don’t think- ahh!- I don’t think ‘ill’ is right. Something is wrong with her, makes her do things… I know this may sound odd, but I’ve discovered that she is what attacks us in the darkness!”

He’s ‘discovered’ it.

“Charlie.” I grind the salve in with the heel of my hand. He shudders and moans a bit before managing to say:

“You know her?”

“I do.”

“We have to help her.” He sounds dubious. He probably expects me to disagree.

“Help her?” I forget often how little he knows. He still thinks he can change things.

“She should come with us!”

I grab the sides of his face and make him look at me- his gaze has been wandering all over the place. It’s a habit of his when distressed, he glances all over. “How do you know Charlie?”

“She h- helped me.” He blinks a few times. “She got me out of that horrible place underground. I didn’t tell you?”

“No! You didn’t!” I could slap him but he’s suffering enough… maybe. “Charlie got you out of that place? You’re sure?”

“Yes.” He is looking right through me now, reminiscing. “She looked like an angel. Well, I mean… no, no, I meant that exactly! She looked just like an angel.”

He looks at me defiantly. Again, he must expect me to disagree, but I won’t. Even if it sounds idiotic when he says it.

“And she saved my life. Although it did hurt,” he admits.

She didn’t do it for me.

All those years. She didn’t do it for me.

Wilson frowns. “Are you injured too? You, uh, don’t look so good.”

I really could slap him. “I’m fine, but I won’t be if we stay here. Charlie’s in charge now. And she’s not pleased with me.”

Roses and rivers. Aw, rats.

“So we need to get out now, or sooner,” I say, “and you’ve probably got a useless arm now, you little twit. You were out in the dark on purpose. Looking for Charlie, were you?”

“I wanted to… help her, I guess,” he stammers. “If she’s not pleased with you, you know, I’m not either, but I’m tolerating your presence. I haven’t killed you yet, I mean! Perhaps we could plead our case. Or maybe you don’t need to be involved. I could help her myself.”

I want to shake the little twerp, but the really infuriating thing… if he had a chance at all of saving her I would have to let him do it. Of course if he could help her it would be thanks to my bringing him here. In my opinion, I’d still deserve the credit.

But he can’t do anything. “I couldn’t do anything.”

“Pardon?”

“You can’t help Charlie. Give it up. Anyway, you’ll be dead tomorrow.”

\---

Wilson is not dead. He’s had a fitful sleep and looks unhappy, but not in any danger.

He has nightmares too. He screams and cries at night. Often. He doesn’t seem to mind that I know. I wonder if he thinks I expect it.

I don’t know why I care if he knows I do the same. I just do, I don’t want him to know. It's as if deep down I somehow still expect to keep some dignity.

I also don’t know why he’s not dead.

“Care to explain why you’re still around, Mr. Science?” I ask him.

“Why would I die from this? It’s just a shoulder wound,” he says, bleary-eyed. “But you did sort of have me worried when you kept consigning me to the grave. I thought you knew something I didn’t.”

“It was bleeding all over.” I’ve seen him bleed that much and then die, how was I supposed to know he wouldn’t this time? I may have overestimated the blood, I suppose. I don’t have my glasses or my throne anymore.

“It stopped bleeding,” he says. “The salve helped. You helped, applying pressure to the wound.”

“You said you needed an amulet.” I wonder if I saved his life. If I did I only owe him… let’s see… fifty-six thousand, nine hundred twenty-four more lives if I want to reimburse the guy for every life he’s lost here.

I think I’ll call it even at one.

“I don’t like to take chances!” Wilson says. “I’d put on an amulet if we had it. But I think I’ll pull through this time, Maxwell. Unless something comes along to finish me off. It might. D’you think you could make breakfast?”

I guess I’ll have to.

Can’t seem to open the ice box, though.

Wilson gets up and toddles over. “What happened to your hands?”

They are bubbled all over with blisters. I look like I’m wearing gloves. Ugly, ugly gloves. “I… suppose I’ve overtaxed them.” I did make fifteen boards and kill four hounds. What beats me is how I didn’t notice sooner. Distracted, I guess.

Wilson gently takes one of my hands in his and looks it over. “They’re not good for much right now. I’ll make breakfast. And apply some salve.”

Shortly, as he’s applying it-

“It works quite well if you spread it thinly over the wound and tap it gently in to deeper cuts…” He does so. It stings, but nothing I can’t handle. “You don’t have to, uh… grind it in. That’s not helpful.”

“Right.” He can do one thing right; the cooking meat smells good even though most of it’s from hounds.

“So,” Wilson sighs. “I suppose our experiment is on hold for today.”

“Great. That’s at least one more day with Charlie.” Whom shortly I will never see again… perhaps I should make the best of this.

“Who is Charlie?” he asks. He appears to be avoiding my gaze, choosing to stare up at the sky instead. “What’s her story?”

Do I tell him? “She is… an old friend of mine. I had friends, once.” She was a bit more than a friend, but I don’t see why he needs to know that much. “I tried to save her.”

“You did?”

“Yes, I did. I really did. I couldn’t do it. You can’t do it.”

Why did she help him? She must have wanted the throne. Then why didn’t she help me?

Could she have wanted me to suffer more than she wanted the throne?

“Don’t make fists,” Wilson says. “The blisters will break.”

He’s fiddling with the rose he found yesterday.

“Those are hers,” I say.

“She wore one in her hair.” Wilson strokes the petals. Color is diffusing into his face and he’s getting that far-away look…

Hold on. Hold on, now.

You’ve got to be kidding. This is it. This is what’s wrong with him. He’s not sick, They haven’t futzed with his mind.

“Pal, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re smitten with her.”

“Smitten? Me? I don’t… I don’t become smitten with people! I’m a rational sort.” He twirls the stem of the rose between his fingers.

“Doesn’t that thing have thorns?” I could have figured this out a lot sooner if I’d known he’d met her. How could any poor sap like him resist someone like Charlie? She’s always had a pack of fellows after her.

She didn’t want them. She picked me.

Once.

“Thorns?” Wilson is mumbling. “Oh, yeah, I guess it does… you know, I only saw her once, I’m not _smitten_ with her. Honestly…”

I sigh and lean in close to him- I’d put my hand on his shoulder, but at the moment, no.

It may have been eons since she answered my ad for an assistant, but I remember it like it was hours ago. “Pal. It only took one look at her for me.”


	25. Two Thirty; or, This One Is A Comic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a comic. That's a thing now.
> 
> Warning: The comic shows a little bitty bit of blood and implied violence. All minor, though.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woodie is not there because in this (now AU, I guess) continuity he's the nightmare king right now. I was going to draw some bonus panels if what would have happened if he'd been there, but then I realized I'd already invested too much effort into this.
> 
> (They would have gone like this:  
> Woodie: A good axe might take care of that, eh? ...not Lucy though!  
> Wilson: I've heard I have a big mouth but I don't think there's room to swing an axe in there. Thanks anyway.)


	26. Loneliness; or, You All Like First Person Perspective, Right? No? What?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This goes with 'Charlie', and directly follows it (an unspecified amount of time later). Which is why Wilson has an internal hissy fit about Charlie out of nowhere.
> 
> Oh, first person is back. ;)

“What’s wrong with you _now?”_

Wrong with me? Yes, of course me! He doesn’t speak to Charlie and there’s no one else here. “I wasn’t aware there was anything wrong with me.”

He sighs in a mimicking sort of way. I guess I’ve been sighing.

The carrot’s not done yet, it’s still crunchy on one side. But I’m hungry _now._

The half-cooked carrot tastes worse than either a cooked carrot or a raw carrot. I’ll finish cooking it. Blech, carrots! Carrots, carrots, carrots. I’m surprised I haven’t turned orange. Maybe I have! I don’t have a mirror.

Maxwell is watching me with his beady little eyes, expecting an answer. “I’m tired of eating carrots,” I say.

“Yes, those new… _people_ seem to be taking all the good grub.”

As if he didn’t bring them here! Oh, forget it, I don’t care anymore.

I sigh. Maxwell sighs in imitation. I really don’t think I’m as nasal as he’s making me out to be.

Well, it’s not as if I have anything to do but watch my carrot go limp. I may as well share my innermost feelings with Maxwell. I’m kind of curious as to what he’ll say in response. His emotions don’t seem to work right. “I’m a little lonely.”

“Lonely?” He looks flabbergasted. I don’t believe it’s occurred to him that someone who has been alone or nearly alone for such a long time might become lonely!

“I have a wistful desire for human companionship.” The smell of the cooking carrot somehow manages to both make me hungrier and kill my desire to eat. Wretched vegetable.

“Human companionship! Listen to him.”

Maxwell says it theatrically to an imaginary audience of someone other than me. Or maybe he is talking to Charlie after all.

He leans in towards me with a fierce peering gaze. Must he squint at me so? “What am I, chopped liver?”

I’d rather have chopped liver than this stupid carrot.

Of course, Maxwell does _have_ a liver- no, no! No, I’m not going to think of it! Carrots are fine. Carrots are good for you. Sure, I’m probably losing protein, but I’ll get it back… eventually… I’ve never had to compete for food before. I don’t think I’m good at it.

I know I’m not good at it. I’m eating carrots.

He wasn’t actually asking about food, though. He was asking why he’s not company enough for me.

“You’re a jerk,” I say.

And it’s true, but that’s not why. I don’t care to tell him the real reason why I don’t find his company fulfilling. It would seem too cruel.

The thing is, sitting here with Maxwell, I don’t feel like I’m talking to another human. I don’t perceive him as human anymore. Come to think of it, I don’t think I ever did!

“What about the new ones?” he asks. “There are… let’s see… nine other little mortals running around the island. If you want to join the pack, why don’t you?”

Then again, often I get the impression that Maxwell doesn’t think he’s human either.

I wish I’d paid more attention to psychology back when I had the chance. I’d love to understand more about Maxwell’s strange mind. He doesn’t seem to understand some very basic things about how people interact. Heck, I’m not a gregarious sort of person myself, but I’m not that bad.

“I take it you have not noticed…”

“Noticed what?”

“The others are avoiding me,” I inform him. The ones that don’t turn and give me hostile, challenging stares when they see me, anyway. I’m the one avoiding the aggressive ones.

“Are they? Why?”

“Why do you think they might be avoiding me?” I ask. Part of the carrot is cooked enough to eat. It’s squishy between my teeth. It tastes like failure and bad dreams.

Maxwell shrugs and leans back. “Your sparkling personality?”

“I haven’t spoken a word to them.”

“Your homely countenance?”

“No, Maxwell.” I often can’t quite tell whether or not he’s being serious.

His knee is jittering a tiny bit. I believe he wants to smoke. Tough luck with that, pal. “I give up. Why are they avoiding you?”

“It’s you.” He has to know that! I wonder if he’s teasing it out of me on purpose, but if so, why?

“Me! What do I have to do with it?”

I turn the carrot. It seems done… part of it’s gotten burned. Great. “I was standing by you when they came into this world… they’ve seen me cooperate with you… they think I’m in cahoots with you. They believe I’m your minion. Your spy, maybe.”

“Is that so?” He raises an eyebrow. I think there’s more hair in his eyebrows than on the top of his head. “Well, if you’re pining for your own kind so badly, why don’t you just set the record straight? Stab me in the back. Throw me under the bus.”

“I don’t have a knife or a bus.” This carrot feels like mucus going down my throat. I have a sudden, dizzying urge to retch and can’t because this is my only dinner.

Maxwell rolls his eyes.

“What would I tell them?” I say, pressing on my diaphragm to stifle the gag reflex. “I can’t tell them I don’t fraternize with you. I do! If I pretended otherwise they’d never believe it. They have eyes. I camp with you… I work with you… I’m sitting here with you now, breaking bread with you…” Oh, if only we really had bread! Bread with non-insecty butter on it, or maybe a piece of cheese, and with a cup of coffee to go with it, and… no carrots!

He leans back. “So all this time I’ve been condescending to allow you a share in my brilliant wit and splendor you’ve been pining for your little herd of monkeys.”

“I can’t help having a herd instinct. Humans are naturally drawn to socialize with one another…” I wouldn’t be surprised if he really and truly needs reminding. Perhaps he has lost his herd instinct…

Why else would he not be as lonesome as I am? Or worse! He’s been here longer than I have. But I suppose he had his ‘puppets’ to watch. Including me.

“There’s a woman or two in that pack somewhere,” Maxwell says. “Does that have anything to do with your ‘lonesomeness’?”

No!

Look, I get it! The beautiful woman in the shadows is your girlfriend and she likes to murder me! I wasn’t ever seriously going to pursue her anyway! I’m not some kind of beefalo in heat! I only wanted to see her again because she was the first person to show me any kindness in the three years since you stole my life away from me!

Shut up! You’re going bald!

“Looking a bit flushed,” Maxwell says.

Why do I let him stay with me?

Because he’s a buffoon who’s been tortured for decades and without my generosity he may well perish in his own evil, twisted landscape. Yeah, yeah. I’ll never be happy. I will never be a happy person. That’s okay, though, I have my career…

Carrots, I hate carrots…

\---

There’s nothing for breakfast. Not even carrots.

Maxwell is sitting by our fire pit with his legs stretched out in front of him. He looks like he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

He also looks tired. I don’t know whether or not he slept last night… I was asleep myself. It seems a bit strange to think about, but I get a better night’s rest with him in the camp, just knowing I’m not completely alone any longer. So when he can’t sleep I feel as if there’s been an unfairness done to him.

Maybe that’s stupid.

“I’m going to go forage for something that resembles sustenance,” I tell him. “You’re free to join me if you care to.”

“I think I will,” he says.

Really? He doesn’t usually care to.

“All right, then! Let’s go.” Before he changes his mind.

I searched to the north yesterday, and west the day before that. Their communal camp is to the east, so we shall travel south.

I had hoped for untouched wilderness laden with berries, but it was not to be. That very large man with all the bulging muscles is here already. Scouring the bushes. The one got up like a circus clown or something is with him, frolicking around with some kind of gathering basket. I don’t have a gathering basket. There’s not enough to put in one.

A clump of grass provides quick cover. I have a good view from here- I can see the two picking berries with their five-fingered hands and opposable thumbs. Human hands, just like the one of mine holding the grass in place.

The big man is talking and laughing. Maxwell and I don’t laugh like that, hearty and free. We both kind of have this sardonic laugh…

Hold on, Maxwell hasn’t taken cover alongside me- or elsewhere. He’s just standing there. He reminds me of a dead branch against the sky.

He sticks out to me- he must stick out to that giant over there. “Get over here! That man could snap you in half.”

Maxwell turns his head to take in a view of the fellow. He already knows what he looks like! He brought him here!

Maybe his ears aren’t working? I beckon to him.

“Trying to hide from me, eh?” Maxwell drawls.

I don’t know what that means. “Now is not the time for banter!”

The big man turns his head, offering us a view of a truly magnificent moustache. It sweeps out to the sides like the questing whiskers of some fearsome beast of prey.

I may be hungry but it doesn’t mean I want to see Maxwell turned into a pretzel. “Maxwell-“

“Get out here, slave!” I hate it when he calls me ‘slave’!

Maxwell’s long arm snaps out like a striking snake- he takes hold of my collar and hauls me forward- taken off guard I stumble and fall flat on my face. At my first attempt to rise to my feet, he plants a hand on my back and shoves me back down. My chest is pressed flat to the ground. I have a detailed view of grass blades, dirt, and one wandering ant. It’s purple.

“You betrayed me,” Maxwell announces in his loudest, most booming voice, a voice of his that pulls up the ghosts of some rather unpleasant feelings and makes me flinch. “I believed you were my loyal minion and you betray me- _me?_ The Amazing Maxwell? How did you do it?”

“What…” In my shock, I am breathless. “What are you…”

I must be hearing him wrong, somehow. Why would he-

“I wash my hands of you, you wretched little vermin. Go. Join the other rabble, if that’s what you were planning to do all along.” He places the heel of his shoe into my side, shoves and rolls me over onto my back.

“But-“

“Evil man!” That voice is even louder than Maxwell’s! “Your bad magics are no match for the might of Wolfgang!”

“Oh, dear,” Maxwell says, and he turns to flee. With those long legs of his he can flee rather quickly. I’ll have some trouble catching up to him.

…I won’t be able to catch up to him at all! The big man has my wrist.

“Tiny man stays here!” he booms.

“Let go of me, you rustic idiot!”

I screech it with the full force of my voice, which is not inconsiderable. Sometimes, if you sound as piercingly offended as you can muster, they do what you want under the force of your outrage without taking the time to realize that they don’t have to listen to you at all!

But this fellow’s immune. He turns and gabbles something in Russian to his silent friend.

Though knowing I shouldn’t do it, I strike his arm with my fist. One. Twice. An ineffectual barrage of punches. My body is flooded with adrenaline and I’m stuck inside it watching myself panic like an animal.

The big man is no more affected than he would be if I’d hit him with a feather. With a rather galling air of patience he gathers my other arm into his hand so that I can’t hit him anymore. I kick his shins and he doesn’t care about that either.

“I don’t want anything from you,” I say. “I only want to go back to my camp. Please, won’t you let me go?”

No dice! Maybe it would have worked if I hadn’t tried to attack him and scream at him. Even now, I have a powerful urge to try to bite the man’s arms.

The mime guy prances around and pretends to read a book. The giant nods his head and says: “Tiny man must see Wickerbottom!”

Wicker… bottom? I’m picturing some sort of massive idol, with a stony countenance and a butt made of wicker. “Oh, that’s… not…”

He yanks me forward.

“Okay,” I say. There’s not much else I can do. The fight’s gone right out of me and there’s no reasoning with him.

He pulls me towards the northeast, in the direction of their camp. I stumble in the direction of his tug.

The giant strikes up a totally one-sided conversation in Russian to his quiet little friend. I say ‘little’, but he’s a touch taller than I am. Slenderer than I am, however- even though I’ve been on a starvation diet. But he doesn’t look as if he’s wasting away- he looks sleek. Light bone structure.

Both of them look well-fed and relatively clean. Neither one of them is acknowledging my presence except to haul me along.

I’m a bit sore where Maxwell threw me in the dirt, mildly contused in the face, probably got dirt under the skin. I’m lucky I didn’t break my nose. I’ll be even luckier if I don’t get an infection.

Why would he do that to me? I’ve been good to him. I’ve fed him, I’ve given him a place to sleep. Did he want my camp to himself? Could he not bear my company any longer? I always thought that maybe deep down he really _liked_ me, sort of. Or enjoyed being near me, at least, in some capacity or other. I thought he was joking, at least a little, when he talked about the qualities in me that he disapproves of. The many, many qualities.

I’ve been an idiot.

We’ve come to the river. I see they’ve built a bridge. They’re industrious sorts.

Why would Maxwell think I’ve betrayed him? I haven’t- have I made him think I have? All I can think of is I said I wanted to join the other group. And… now I have. Rather forcefully. That pin-striped devil! He’s taking revenge on me for idle conversation!

We’ve come to the start of the bridge and I’ve stopped walking.

The big man tugs on my arm. He’s not exerting enough force to injure me, but enough to make it clear he’s not kidding. He could tear me limb from limb rather easily, I think. At the very least he could cause a dislocation. I should do what he wants.

And yet, I know nothing about the structural integrity of this bridge.

The man’s sick of waiting. He grabs me under the armpits and throws me over his shoulder. I have a lovely view of the sweat stain down his back.

If I look up, I can see the field we just vacated… and Maxwell is there. He’s watching us from behind a tree. He doesn’t look happy.

Here’s my chance to get revenge on him by pointing out his location to this six-foot-tall bicep!

Aw, heck, I’m not going to do it. I can’t bring myself to do it.

Maxwell is slinking away now. I… guess I’ve joined the tribe of strangers whether I like it or not. But as a member, or as a prisoner?

Or as a main course?

\---

We must have reached our destination. My captor sets me on the ground. I am facing an old woman, seated in a roughly-made chair with a grass cushion. She seems quite elderly and she has that light, bony look the aged have.

She is wearing glasses. How has she kept her glasses intact out here?

“Well, now, what’s this?” she asks.

The chair… a throne? This must be their chieftain. If I’m not to be seen as an enemy by these people, I must show her fealty!

I kneel.

“Oh, dear, there’s no need for that,” she says. “Do get up. What is happening? Wolfgang, why have you brought him here?”

“Wickerbottom!” the man behind me booms. “Tiny man has been given boot.”

“Given the boot?”

The mime one does a rather good imitation of Maxwell kicking me in the grass.

Wickerbottom leans in and inspects me. She has very large eyes that are the color of mahogany.

“Do you care to explain yourself?” she asks.

“Ah…” My mind’s a blank.

A silence falls. I can hear the breeze gently stirring the grass… Wickerbottom’s ancient lungs gamely huffing the air in and out… my own stomach grumbling.

“There’s not a lot of meat on me,” I say. Instantly, the very moment it leaves my mouth, I realize this is the worst thing I could say at this time. Well, not the worst thing, but it’s pretty ill-advised.

“Have you come looking for food, dear?”

Dear? Nobody calls me dear. Nobody’s called me dear since Grandmother Dempsey passed away. “No, I- that wasn’t why- I haven’t come here at all, that… fellow over there brought me.”

“He is minion of Maxwell!” the musclehead insists. The mime does this little bit where he’s sneaking about with a hunched back and casting furtive looks… is that supposed to be me? I don’t look like that.

Wickerbottom clears her throat. “Could you kindly explain to us your precise relationship with Maxwell?”

“I, ah… right now?” What do I say? The radio, the door, the five worlds, the throne, the night of the bushes, the other door… I don’t understand it myself, let alone putting it into words for another. “No, I can’t. I can’t do that.”

I’m blowing it! I’m blowing this worse than I blew my dissertation defense!

“He watches us,” says the big man. “I will ask the questions!”

“Wolfgang, dear, no.” Wickerbottom turns back to me. “Could you give us some broad strokes, perhaps?”

There’s no point in avoiding what she must already know… “I, uh… I’ve been camping with him, as I think you know… I helped build the, ah, door.”

“But you and he are no longer on good terms?”

“He doesn’t want me any longer.” I sound more pitiful than I expected. “I don’t know why. He doesn’t tell me anything!”

Wickerbottom looks me over with a gaze that seems to see right into my skull. She nods slightly, appearing to have made a decision, and she says: “I do not know whether or not he is trustworthy. I do know that I see before me an anxious young man in need of a shave, a bath and a square meal.”

Meal?

Did I hear her correctly? I don’t think I could possibly have heard her correctly.

She rises to her feet. She is youthfully spry. “Come with me, dear.”

\---

They had eggs! I still can’t believe they had eggs. And they let me have the eggs. They don’t even know eggs are my favorite! Unless they were spying on us, in which case they’re all hypocrites. Generous hypocrites.

It’s been so long since I felt full. And clean. They’re both good feelings.

“I’ll take that, eh.”

I’d completely forgotten someone was watching me. He wants to take the empty plate. Certainly, he’s welcome to it. That’s an impressive beard this fellow has- I wonder why Wickerbottom hasn’t made him shave! Possibly because the facial hair actually looks fitting on him.

“You know, I haven’t asked your name,” I say.

“Woodie.”

“Ah!” That’s not a name. That’s an adjective. That’s not his fault, though, I suppose. “I’m-“

My mind goes abruptly blank. I shake my head and my thoughts resume. “-Wilson. That’s my name.” Right! Not ‘pal’. And certainly not ‘slave’. “I’m honored to meet you.” I extend my hand to shake.

Woodie eyes my hand for a moment before taking it. His grip is strong and warm. I am subject to a sudden swell of sentimentality. “You’ve been very kind,” I say, a touch thickly.

“Don’t mention it,” Woodie says.

Something’s approaching. I get to my feet.

It’s Wickerbottom! I bob a bow to her. “How excellent to see you again!”

“Oh, oh, my dear boy,” she says, “I must insist that you not show me such deference! I am not a ruler or queen or anything like that. We are all equals here. I am only taking charge of certain tasks because I happen to be knowledgeable and well-equipped for things.”

Did I screw up? “I was only being polite!”

“Were you? Well, in that case, it is much appreciated.” She curtseys in response. “Woodie, you may go now, if you have business elsewhere.”

“Ma’am,” he says deferentially.

“Now, Wilson, dear…” She sits down on the ground. I sit across from her. “Would you mind telling me a bit about yourself?”

“I don’t mind at all.” How far back does she need to know? I doubt it’s relevant that I was born in rural Massachusetts to a relatively well-off banker and a former vaudevillian. “Well… I’m a scientist, an independent researcher…”

“Ah! How wonderful.” Wonderful? No odd looks, no shrugs? “I am a bit of a researcher myself.”

Really?

Maybe it’s just because she fed me, but I think I’m quickly getting to be fond of Wickerbottom. “Well, I… I was working one night and…” How do I explain it? “Maxwell contacted me. He offered a chance to discover new things…”

“He has a talent for uncovering what people most desire.”

“You know, he really does!” Yes… he knows what people want. “But, uh, when I followed his directions, I think you can guess how it went. Though if I’m being quite fair to him, I discovered a lot of new things out here. I especially discovered things about my pain tolerance.”

She smiles politely. “And how did you come to be on civil terms with him?”

My gaze drifts away to the horizon. It’s often not unpleasant out here. Right now there’s a sweet-smelling breeze and a homey sound of crackling embers.

She’s been so kind to me… and I owe her the truth. It’s all I have to repay her with.

“It started with a door,” I say, clasping my hands in my lap.

\---

It’s about midnight, I think. I should be sleeping. I’m warm, comfortable and free from hunger, and both Wickerbottom and Woodie are nearby. Wickerbottom is even standing sentry.

I can’t stop thinking about Maxwell. He’s got to be all alone out there.

I don’t know how much of my story Wickerbottom believed. She nodded and smiled a lot, and I was getting really hopeful that she was buying it until I realized how many people have nodded and smiled at me before. Why is it that lies are so often easier for others to swallow than the hard, honest truth?

The only other person who witnessed the whole thing is Maxwell.

He’s alone out there, and he’s got to be pretty hungry by now. There’s no food at our camp- or his camp, now.

Bah! He doesn’t know what’s good for him. I ought to go back there. I really should go back, he’s alone, he’s in the dark… but I don’t owe him anything.

But he’s alone.

I just don’t know what to do. Why’d he ditch me like that? Is he just sick of me?

If I go back, Wickerbottom and the others won’t ever trust me again. I’m already on thin ice.

The others…

Hold on. Hold on! Holy mother of Tesla, I’ve got it! I said I couldn’t go join the group because nothing I could say would induce them to trust me because they’d seen me with Maxwell, right? So he put on a show of rejecting me in front of them so I could…

But…

Ah, that theory doesn’t hold water. Maxwell’s not as rotten as I thought, but he’s not so selfless as to send me away for the sake of my psychological health. Especially since I’ve been feeding him. Nah, I must’ve gotten on his nerves.

You know what, though, I’ve had his death on my conscience once already and I didn’t care for it.

I clear my throat to get Wickerbottom’s attention. My only chance is to be honest with her, I guess.

“Do you need something, dear?”

“Uhm. Maxwell…” How to put this? “He’s made himself rather frail with his meddling with dark powers… I don’t know how long he’ll last on his own.”

“Is that so.”

“I would… sort of like to see how he’s doing.”

She looks surprised. “But at night, dear? It’s not safe to travel by dark.”

“That’s part of what has me worried about him.” That poor woman in the dark wants Maxwell more than she wants anyone else. “I’ll- I’ll bring a torch.”

“I don’t believe it best for you to go alone. I will accompany you, along with our friend Woodie.” She begins to gently shake him awake.

“Ah, but…” They’re not planning to sneak up and kill him, right?

“I will accept nothing else, dear,” she says primly. “I will not allow the members of my camp to wander by night.”

I thought you said you weren’t the queen.

\---

I think we’re in earshot of him now. I turn to the other two. “Let me go first. He knows me.”

“All right,” says Wickerbottom. “Don’t go far.”

I’ve only known these two for a few hours but it bothers me to leave them already.

I slip close enough to see the fire. At least he’s got a fire.

My voice is cracking. “Maxwell?”

“Seriously?” he replies.

I go a bit closer. His eyes look like glittering black buttons by the firelight. “What are you doing back here?” he asks. “I thought you wanted to go off with your new friends.”

“I, um… well, you know, wistful for the old haunts, and- and all that. The camp looks good.” I clasp my hands behind my back. My palms are sweating, I find. “Find anything to eat?”

“Oh, I’m doing alright.” He crosses his legs and looks at a spot somewhere over my right ear. I check- no one is standing behind me. “Looking furtive, pal. Did you happen to bring an ambush with you for the fun of it?”

“No. Uh… no. Your fire’s getting low.”

He shrugs.

“You know, they’ve got food,” I say. “Eggs!”

“I don’t suppose you’ve come to gloat.”

“They’re quite reasonable people.” The words tumble out. “If you apologized, and explained the situation, they might-“

He springs to his feet. “Stop right there, fool! You think I want to join your little pack of morons? Bah! They’re- they’re-“

He breaks off and puts a hand over his eyes. I find I’ve frozen in place.

A sound of an approach. I turn. It’s Woodie. “Ah, hello,” I say. “Everything’s fine.”

He’s incredulous. “Did you just invite that hoser to our camp?”

“Me? No. Pff! I didn’t do that.”

“You did bring an ambush!” Maxwell snaps.

“No! That’s not it either!”

“What do you think you’re-“

“Stop!” I squawk. “You’re going to die out here!” The force of my own voice is a surprise. “Do you want to die out here? Huh? You can’t stay away forever! You’ll starve!”

I didn’t know I cared this much. My heart’s pounding.

Wickerbottom is standing at my side. “Now, dear,” she says to me, “we can’t just bring him back! I see you’ll need watching.”

I think I just blew it once and for all.

She steps closer to Maxwell. “As for you… I do not believe it wise at this time to bring you to our camp. Not at all. But Mr. Higgsbury has told me a rather interesting story that leads me to believe there may be cause to give you another chance. I’ll tell you what we’ll do, dear; if you need food we’ll bring you some here. Will that help?”

Maxwell is speechless.

So’m I.

“Would you like a meal now?” she asks.

Maxwell looks away. He looks down. He adjusts the cuffs of his sleeves and makes a ‘hem’ noise.

Woodie clears his throat and shuffles.

A lump rises in my own throat and I have the oddest sensation that Maxwell and I are lifted on the same swell of emotion. Somehow joined at the heart.

…No, that’s stupid.

“Well, if you insist, I might be convinced to take something,” Maxwell says finally in a gruff tone.

“We’ll fetch it for you.”

Woodie looks like he’s not pleased with his plan, but he fiddles with the handle of his axe and says nothing. He must have a great deal of faith in this sprightly old woman.

Wickerbottom turns to me. “Where will you stay tonight?”

I didn’t blow it?

“Here.” I sound shy.

“Very well.”

I hope I don’t seem ungrateful. “It was very good of you to-“

“No, I understand completely. You’re a kind young lad, Wilson. That, or perhaps you are suffering from Stockholm syndrome… I will need time to evaluate your case.”

Stockholm syndrome? Never heard of it. “Thanks,” I say.

I sit down across from Maxwell.

He stares at me.

I smile at him.


	27. Insanity!; or, Skip this one too

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is NOT in the same continuity as any of the other stories.  
> WARNING: CHARACTERS EXPRESS... QUITE A BIT OF INSENSITIVITY ABOUT MENTAL ILLNESS. DON'T READ THIS IF THAT'S A TRIGGER FOR YOU.  
> OTHER WARNING: All sentiments expressed about mental health professionals in this story refer specifically to the mental health profession circa late 1910s-early 1920s. Modern day psychiatrists are usually legitimate doctors and not amoral madmen experimenting on people. (I would say that the characters' sentiments are not my own, but no, after the cursory research I did for this, I 100% agree with these guys. I mean, dang.)

"You feel compelled to start fires?"

That look in his eyes! That hideous, fearful anti-fire! That don't-come-near-me-you stare!

Willow wasn't gonna take any of that.

She stood up with a toss of her head. "I happen to like it," she said.

"But that's sort of dangerous, isn't it?" he said.

"Not if you're careful!"

He stood up too. "But you aren't being careful! You just told me! Oh, I'm not talking about your fire-setting-" he had the audacity to wave at her, as if admonishing her to not be so silly! As if he thought she was being silly! "-although that's not always careful either, I've _seen_ you! But what I meant was you mustn't go about telling people that. You hardly know me. But you know I'm a scientist! You should know better!"

Her voice dripped pretty-china-doll poison. "Why? Doncha like me anymore?"

He looked more fearful than ever, and she itched to smack him. "No, that's not-"

"Because you're just gonna have to deal with it." She turned and began to walk away, even though it meant turning her back on the pretty little flames in the fire pit.

Wilson followed her. Never could take a hint. "Well, it's safe enough here. But when you get back home you can't talk like that."

"Or?"

"Or you could be committed!"

This was just getting better and better. "Are you saying I'm crazy?"

"No, no. It's not necessary to be crazy to be committed!"

She paused and turned to him. He had pale, sparse freckles from the sun and they stood out against bloodless skin.

"It's a serious thing to be committed," he said. "You wouldn't like it at all! And it's easy to be committed if you're sane, if you say the wrong things. It is intensely dangerous to talk to people about your fire-setting. Intensely!"

She frowned. "Well." Maybe she shouldn't be so mad at him after all. Because, funny enough... he was scared, but not of her. He was scared for her.

That hadn't happened before. Well, that wasn't nearly so rude as she'd thought. "I'm okay, really. I know how to take care of myself. Don't pay it any mind."

Behind him, the fire was still flickering...

"But I do mind! I mind about your mind," he babbled. He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down.

Her breath hovered between them like a tiny, wispy ghost. "Let's go back to the fire."

"Are you- compelled to go back to the fire?"

She rolled her eyes. "No." A little. "It's cold. Wilson, that's not really any of your business. Like, I just told you because..." Why had she told him? "Just to see what you'd think. Doesn't mean I want tons of questions about it."

"Okay. But it is my business, though," he said as they walked back to the fire. "I'm making it my business. I consider you a- a friend, and you see, I know a little bit about those institutions. As a scientist."

"Do ya?" She didn't really think she needed to know more than she did.

They sat by the fire. "Yes I do," he said, leaning forward and looking at her pleadingly. "You see, if you were to be committed, you would first of all be utterly restricted from your fires. Even though they clearly do you some good."

"Pff, I would love to see 'em try it!"

"No you wouldn't! They'd hold you down. They'd strap ya down. All because you wanted a little- actually, they'd do it for nothin'." He suddenly looked away at the ground. "I've seen patients restrained who had never been at all violent. A little excitable, that was all..."

"Huh! You _saw_ that happen?"

"I observed it," he said tersely.

Now she was intrigued. She thought he'd only known these things from school and books. 

"They strap ya down for being excited?" she asked. She'd been threatened with the madhouse before, but not by anyone who seemed to really mean it, and never by anyone who really knew what went on in one. Mostly just by older kids back in the orphanage who said stupid stuff like 'hey, if you keep being such a weirdo, they'll lock you up' and all that.

He was rapidly tapping one foot. "Yes. To the bed. Or the wall. Or in a jacket. All three in one day, even." 

"They can do that?"

"Yes."

"What if I said no?"

"You can't say no, they just _grab_ you. It hurts," he said, "to be put in a straitjacket... the patients are awfully stiff afterwards. Can hardly move... it's pitiable. And I hear it's _very_ demeaning..."

"What else do they do in there?"

"Um! Well," he said. He fidgeted. "There's hydrotherapy. One is forced to stay in a cold bath all night. You would hate that."

"Brr! Couldn't I just get out again?"

"No! Not if there are three men holding you down."

"More holding me down?"

"Yes! Don't you get it? You don't  _get_ to argue in there! If they want you in the ice water, you're going in the ice water! And then when I caught cold from _being_ in the ice water all night," he said in an outburst, "they said I'd left the window open and they _strapped me to the bed again to keep me away from the window!"_

The silence that followed was as thick as the layer of ash in the fire pit.

She waited for him to maybe say that he'd gone in there to do research or something, but instead he just sat there and stared round-eyed into the fire, looking like he wanted to disappear. Yeah... he hadn't gone in there to do research. He was a chemist, not a head doctor. Still, if he wanted to pass it off as experiment, she'd go along with it...

Nope. He wasn't going to do that, apparently.

Eesh, this was getting awkward. Willow should do something!

"Gee whiz," she said, "you shoulda told us you were a _mad_ scientist!"

Wilson did not laugh. At all.

"Aw, don't be a _sad_ scientist," she said.

Now he did laugh! Sort of. "I was admitted for manic-depression," he said.

"Oh, so I guess you're both."

"Supposedly." He cleared his throat. "But you see, you have to be careful who you tell these things to. You just confessed your compulsions to a mental patient."

He watched her sadly out of the corner of his eye and she realized that he was in the same position she'd been a few minutes ago- worrying about how scared she was of him and what she'd do about it.

"You seem as crazy as I do," she said decisively. "Which is, not crazy at all. I bet you told the wrong person your ideas and they just couldn't understand your genius, huh?" She was only half-kidding.

"That had something to do with it," Wilson said, "I guess. I ought to tell you how it happened, in hopes you can avoid the same wretched fate."

"Yeah, don't just tell me you were in the loony bin and leave it there. How'd you get out, for one thing?"

"They let me go eventually." Wilson shuffled his feet. "You see, the fatal flaw in my character is that I am far too trusting. Well, to begin with, I told my family everything about my research, knowing full well they didn't understand it. That in its own would not have sealed my doom, but it set the stage. I was firmly established as 'slightly off'. Which-" he frowned at Willow- "-was very foolish. I wanted to be the eccentric genius. It's who I am. But it wasn't worth it to have that reputation."

"Okay, yeah, I get it," said WIllow, who could sense a lecture a mile off.

He was not to be deterred from the lecture. "And you wanna be the plucky fire-starter, I can tell."

"Weeell-"

"It ain't worth it."

Willow shrugged.

Then he changed the subject back to his story- at least it had been a short lecture. "Everyone was watching me like a hawk for signs of insanity," he said. "And then... in a moment of weakness, they pounced."

A moment passed. He did not volunteer what that moment of weakness was.

"So what'd you do?" she prompted. "Dig somebody up for the greater good?"

"No." He rubbed his hands together, wincing. Gee, had he done something really bad?

"C'mon, you can tell me."

"It coulda happened to anyone."

"What was iiit?" Did it involve gruesome things happening to animals?

"Oh, I was out having lunch and I... well, it had been a bad week."

She stared at him, waiting.

"I started crying into my fruit salad," he said, tugging on one ear.

Was that it? "That means you're sad, not crazy."

"I didn't stop until forty-eight hours later."

Her eyebrows rose, despite herself.

"So my brother checked me into the state hospital," he concluded.

"He just brought you there?"

"I let him bring me. I didn't know any better, you see! I felt rotten, and I thought that psychiatry was a legitimate science like any other. It's not! They have no idea what they're doing! I told you, I'm too trusting. That's why I'm on this horrible island."

"They put you in a straightjacket because you were  _crying?"_ She shuddered. If that was how they treated somebody who was just having a rotten couple of days... somebody who'd never done anything dangerous like, say, _set a ton of fires..._ "That's, um... did it make you not want to cry to be in a straitjacket?"

"No it didn't. Don't trust anybody," he said.

"Can I trust you about not trusting anybody?"

"Uh..."

"Ah, don't worry about it," she said. "I know how to stay out of trouble back home." The beautiful fire pit didn't seem quite as warm anymore, though.

"I guess you do, if you've made it this far. I just don't think you should tell anyone else about your compulsions," Wilson said. He looked awful. "If you want my opinion. Not a lot of people do, I admit, especially when they find out about the, uh, hours I've spent strapped into a chair..."

"Hm. Thanks," she said. "I think maybe I will keep things a little bit closer to the vest from now on."

He looked up at her hopefully. "Yes, that's a good idea, I think!"

"And if you want the opinion of a firebug, you can stand to worry a _little_ bit less. Just a little bit." She reached over the fire and patted his shoulder. "There's nobody here who's gonna strap us to chairs."

"Right," he mumbled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final historical note: 'But what about insulin shock/fever therapy/lobotomy?' Not invented yet... and I don't believe any of those were used to treat manic depression anyway, although I wouldn't have put it past old-timey psychiatrists to go 'Well, bipolar disorder is sort of like schizophrenia, right? Nurse, bring to me my monogrammed ice picks!'  
> Also, it's up to you to decide whether Wilson really had bipolar disorder or was misdiagnosed after having a really bad episode of stress (preceded by dramatic personality quirks). Even today it can take more than one try to accurately diagnose someone.


	28. The Dead Letters Office; or, You Like Bad AUs Right? What? No? Too Bad There Have Been About Five Of Them So Far

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one also is not in the main timeline of these stories... and also definitely not in the timeline of the two first-person stories... though it might go with the story right before this one, actually. When this collection is finished I should make some kind of navigation page for it because there are quite a few continuities going on here now :') whoops
> 
> This is definitely not the version of Wilson's mother from the 'horrid family secret' story.

Hey, Wills!

How’s my favorite nephew, huh? Heard you had a little trouble at school. Keep your chin up! They’re just jealous!

The package has some things from Cali in it. Just a few things that made me think of you. You should come visit me sometime, you could use a little sun!

Remember, in ten years, you’ll be a brilliant researcher and all those boys will be nobodies- so hang in there!

Good luck,

Auntie Charlie

* * *

Dear Auntie Charlie,

The pendulum is really neat! Thanks!! The candy looked good but it somehow wound up by the Bunsen burner and the paper caught fire, so I didn’t get to have any. Thanks anyway.

You’re right- the other boys are just jealous. I don’t pay ‘em any mind, not me. I don’t like it when they make it hard for me to study though.

Mother wrote and said you work in some kinda stage show now! What’s that like?

I don’t need any sun, thanks,

Wilson

* * *

Wills,

‘Some kinda stage show’ is right! I’m a magician’s assistant now! Maybe someday you’ll come out to Cali and meet the guy. He’s a real sweetheart. I think you’d like each other a lot- he’s smart too, and loves finding out about new things! Get this, here’s what was in the ad in the paper that I found him with: “ _should have a curious demeanor and a keen interest in the mysteries of the universe”._ Ain’t that a riot? He doesn’t like sunlight either, by the way.

The show we do is something else! A real phantasmagoria kinda thing! Pretty spooky! It’s not for kids, but I could sneak you in!

I drove up to your mom’s place yesterday. Shame you weren’t there! The place always seems kinda quiet without you running around telling us stuff about frogs.

Hugs and kisses,

Auntie Charlie

* * *

Dear auntie,

A magic show, huh? I like those. I like figuring out all the tricks! Your boss better be prepared if you’re inviting me to the show. But since it’s you, I’ll refrain from sharing what I discover with the audience!

And I’m not a kid, thank you; I am almost sixteen years old.

There was a lady in town selling flowers yesterday. I wanted to get you one since you adore flowers so much, and since I still owe you for the parcel you sent me, but I could think of no way to get it to you all the way over there without it dying and rotting in transit, and a rotting flower would be an awful present, so I’m going to invent some kind of flower transportation system and then send you a rose.

I’ll be home for a week next month! From the 16th to the 23rd. Might I see you then?

Wilson

* * *

Wills,

Aw, rats! What rotten luck that I missed you! I swear I wasn’t blowing you off, kiddo, I couldn’t get away from the act all week, and I arrived at your mom’s place right as you were leaving for the train. I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages. By now you’re probably so tall I wouldn’t know you on the street!

I included a poster of our act! Funniest thing, though, ink is spilled all over my poor boss. I don’t remember how it happened and it was too late to get another one. More rotten luck, I guess!

I hope you make it out to see our act sometime. You wouldn’t be figuring out THESE tricks! Heck, even I don’t know how some of ‘em work… I don’t think my BOSS knows how all of ‘em work! It’s really something special.

Cheers,

Auntie Charlie

* * *

Auntie Charlie!!

Guess what? I’m going on a school trip to California. I’ll be able to come see you and your act! I can’t wait!

Wilson

* * *

Dear Wills,

This is going to sound pretty funny, but please don’t come see our show. I can’t tell you why, but it’s very important. Don’t come. Please.

Your loving Auntie Charlie

* * *

To Whom It May Concern,

I am a university student and I am writing you this letter in regards to my aunt.

Her name is Charlotte Wynne Surgens, though she always went by ‘Charlie’. She became a resident of your city in 1903, and I can find no one who has seen her after April 1906. Other officials in your city have refused to investigate any further, telling me she died in the earthquake, but if she died in the earthquake, where’s the body? I’m sure you, sir, are a reasonable man, and can see the obvious holes in this story! It’s been almost three years, and surely her remains would have turned up by now!

I have included a picture of her from shortly before she disappeared. It is my belief that the man next to her abducted her, after which he may have made use of her for illicit anatomical studies. I can’t find him either and I don’t have a picture of his face, a lack I now think he somehow arranged!

If you have any information about her whereabouts, I need to know.

Please reply in haste. Thank you,

Wilson P. Higgsbury

* * *

Mr. Higgsbury,

We recently received a letter from you inquiring about a Charlotte Wynne Surgens. There are no residents of San Fransisco with that name and never have been.

Good luck to you in your studies.

To Whom It May Concern,

You lack-witted peabrains! How does one contrive to entirely misplace a three-year resident of one’s city? I’ll be writing the mayor. You make me sick!

No thanks,

Wilson Percival Higgsbury, future PhD

* * *

My dear young man,

I have received your letter. If I am not mistaken it is a copy of a letter which was originally sent to city officials, which made your request somewhat confusing.

I regret to inform you that I could encounter nothing about your poor auntie anywhere in my extensive library database. I do wish you all the best in your research.

If I may offer some advice, city officials may be more inclined to cooperate with you if you are able to somewhat restrain your excited nature in future.

Sincerely,

C. S. Wickerbottom, Librarian

* * *

Mr. Higgsbury,

The mayor is sorry to hear about your poor experience and will do everything in his power to rectify this injustice. Please remember on voting day that the mayor has pledged to personally work to address your issue.

Thank you.

* * *

Dear Mother,

Yes, I’m all moved in. I’ve put up my signs and everything! The location is perfect, it sort of reminds me of the old cabin we used to go to in BC. It’s a shame about that place. What really happened to it, anyway? Cousin Eddie keeps joking about it being demolished by a giant beaver and I can’t get him to change his story. Honestly, a beaver! What’s wrong with him? I know Canada is weird, but not that weird.

Anyhow, yes, I’m well. And yes, the house does need a few minor repairs, but I’m not concerned about that! It’s nothing that I can’t fix on my own, when I care to get around to it.

Now, Mother, I have a question to put to you… I suppose you may find this upsetting to think about, but I must ask.

You see, now that I’m out on my own and can spend my time how I please, I thought that in between world-changing discoveries I might apply my mental acumen to something unscientific. Specifically, the question of poor old Auntie Charlie. I know she’s been gone for years now and it’s far too late to help her, but I just really want to know what happened to her!

Us researchers have hunches, and I can’t shake the feeling that Charlie didn’t perish in any earthquake, but something much worse… something deliberately done to her, even. At this point, no matter how horrible the truth, it can’t be worse than what I’m imagining. I need to know, and I think she would want someone to know… and I think as her sister, you might also want to know.

So I’m asking if you know anything about what happened that you haven’t told me. I know that I was a teen-ager when she vanished, so perhaps there were details that you didn’t think I ought to hear about. Well, I’m not a teen-ager anymore so lay it on me.

Thanks,

Wilson

* * *

Dear Wilson,

I’m so happy to hear you’re well. You’ve been taking your cod liver oil, haven’t you? I do wish you’d marry a nice girl. I worry about you all alone in that house. I’m sure there are lots of nice girls who would love to be with you, if you would only tone it down a bit! Just at first, until they get to know you, darling.

Sweetie, I’m afraid it sounds like your cousins have been having a bit of fun with you again. I don’t have any sisters!

Do take care and wrap up warm at night.

Your loving mother

* * *

Mother,

What are you talking about? Of course you had a sister! She used to save up her wages and take the train all the way from California to visit with you! She brought you sweets and trinkets and she told you about the odd jobs she was working… I wouldn’t ever forget it! I used to creep downstairs at night to listen in.

No one else will tell me about her either. Look, I’m not going to share any information about her, if you’re concerned about reputation! Is it because she worked in entertainment? Was she having an affair with that magician she worked with? If so, you can certainly tell me! I’m her nephew!

How could you just pretend she didn’t exist? What could that poor girl have possibly done that warranted such treatment?

I don’t suppose it was a baby that made her disappear… if it was I would rather know my aunt was alive and well somewhere with an illegitimate child than CHOPPED UP INTO PIECES UNDERNEATH A BASEMENT FLOOR SOMEWHERE!!!! Although I can't imagine it was that. I'm certain she'd have found a way to write me.

Honestly, Mother, I’m thirty, just tell me what happened, for crying out loud!

And no, I’m not taking any cod liver oil, and I’d rather pull my own teeth than get married.

Wilson

* * *

Dear Norman,

How are you, darling? How are Rose and the baby? I’m perishing away here without seeing you and my precious grandson. I count the days until Thanksgiving!

Dearest, could you do your old mother a wonderful little favor? Just a teensy one. Might you visit your brother? He is worrying me again. This time it’s something a little more serious than just his frantic ideas, the poor thing seems convinced that he had an aunt, and that something gruesome happened to her! And he still refuses to get married and won't take his cod liver oil.

If you do see him, please try and find out which one of your roguish cousins fed him that horrible idea and stamp it out of him! He’s being driven to distraction by it. You know how he obsesses.

Thank you so much, darling!

Your loving mother

* * *

Mother,

I don’t understand how you could do this. That poor girl. How would you like her to know you’re pretending she doesn’t exist??? She made you cookies and rocked Norman to sleep when he had colic and she gave me sweets and the most charming and encouraging letters and you’re telling me she DOESN’T EXIST??? I still have her letters! I’ll send you copies! You’ll have to acknowledge she exists! Or did exist! Oh, that poor girl! No wonder no one ever found out what happened!

It was that man, I know it! All of you people were determined not to be involved in scandal! You looked the other way and let him do as he pleased! I’m so upset I’m not even gonna sign this letter!

* * *

Robert,

Hello, I’m an old tenant. Wilson. You remember me! I just got a bill for the damages not a month ago, ha-ha, you recall me well! Sorry about that. But anyway! I was a tenant with you. I think I left some things behind. Nothing valuable! Nothing to fence off, you old rascal! Just some letters from my aunt, can’t find em. Must have left em behind. I want em back. Send em to me will ya? Thanks!

Wilson

* * *

Higgsbury,

The only thing you left in my building was a dead mouse. You probably set your old letters on fire somehow. Stop sending me these notes or I’ll have the police on you.

Robert

* * *

Mother,

All right. I’ll stop asking about her.

Please don’t visit this weekend. I feel so tired.

Wilson


	29. Smoke Inhalation; or, Woodie Still Has Hope The Poor Fool

They smelled it before they were close enough to see it; billowing smoke through the trees.

Willow ran ahead, dancing. “Someone’s having a party!”

It was Woodie, of all people. He’d created a field of smoldering embers. When they arrived, he was throwing sticks into it.

He looked up. “Hey, Willow! I was wanting to see you, eh?”

“You’re burning trees!” Willow chirped.

“Oh, no, no! It’s a dung fire,” said Woodie.

That explained the stench.

“I wanna ask how you get more smoke out of it,” he said.

Wilson actually knew the answer to this and he very nearly volunteered it, but at the last moment he realized he hadn’t been the one asked. Manners. Just because one was stranded in the wilderness for the foreseeable future, there was no need to lose one’s manners.

“Smoke?” Willow asked. “But the smoke’s not the fun part. The flames are the fun part.”

“It’s a signal fire, eh?” Woodie looked pleased with himself. “Gonna get rescued, eh?”

Wilson again was on the verge of speaking, but a warning look from Willow silenced him this time. She spoke instead. “Well, that’s great, Woodie! Hmm, green wood is good for smoke…”

Woodie looked pained. “Young, growing wood that’s not ready for chopping?”

“Or,” she said, “plastic gets real smoky when it burns. Got any plastic?”

“None I can do without, sorry,” he said.

“I guess you can put in wet leaves. There are big clumps of ‘em in those woods back there.” She indicated the direction with a bob of her head. “Those smoke up good. Aaaand if you’re making a signal fire, you need to make three. Anyone who sees three fires together will know we’re in trouble for sure! I learned that in Girl Scouts.” Her face took on a contemplative expression. “That was a good day.”

Woodie had left a backpack on the ground nearby and now he combed through it looking for supplies. “I might need to go for more kindling,” he said.

“Aw, don’t bother, I’ve got some! I’ll make you a second fire.” She turned to Wilson. “And you can make yourself useful and make the third one.”

“But-“

“Or you can go get the leaves,” she said.

But this was a pointless exercise in futility. However, Willow did not look amenable to hearing such an argument.

She did like fire. But Woodie! Poor fellow, he was standing there looking so eager and hopeful, oughtn’t he to know he was wasting his time?

"You know-" Wilson started to say.

“We’ll both get the leaves,” Willow said. “You won’t know what to look for.” She walked up to him and put her arm around his, looking him pointedly in the eye.

“All right, then,” said Woodie, bemused.

She dragged Wilson off towards the woods. He turned to her and hissed-

“You know as well as I do that this is not the sort of place you get to by ship. No one's coming to save us. Why are you encouraging him to do this? If you want a fire, you can have one at camp.”

She pushed him away. “Do you have your little journal with you?”

“I carry it everywhere. What does that have to do with-“

“Look at the pages from last month, huh?”

“Why? Isn't that a little bit of a detour?”

“Just do it.” Her words were clipped.

He took off his backpack and fished out the relevant pages.

_The construction of the tower proceeds apace. It will be visible for miles! Rescue will come in no time! We’ll be home so soon now!_

The entry was from six weeks ago.

“Your point?” Wilson asked.

“Did I tell you no one was coming for us?”

“No, you didn’t.”

“There you go.”

"You're saying you knew and you didn't tell me?"

She crossed her arms and looked mulish. "What do you think?"

“Well, I wish you had. I would have far preferred someone tell me before I put all that time and effort and valuable resources into building that thing.” He packed the notes away.

Willow blinked. “I didn’t- think about that.” 

“You did what you thought was best! Nothing else you could do. And now I am going to do what I think is best and tell that poor sap he’s wasting valuable chopping time out there.”

Willow looked for a moment like she wanted to argue, but then she shrugged.

Wilson turned and marched back to where Woodie was tending his fire.

The shaggy face raised to meet his gaze with wistful, childlike hope. “I think this’ll work, eh, buddy? Thanks to wood!”

“Uh, yeah,” said Wilson.

“It’ll be good to get back.” Woodie took a deep breath and let it out with a misty look in his leaf-green eyes. “Back to the lumber camps…”

“Er, yeah.”

“Have you ever been to a lumber camp?”

“Ah, no.”

“They’re the best places in the world, Canadian lumber camps.” He sighed.

Wilson didn’t think he would enjoy a lumber camp but he hardly needed to say so. Maybe there were other things he didn’t need to say. Such as anything that would take the boyish gleam in those eyes and destroy it.

“Well, then,” he said, “we should get you back to those lumber camps! Aw, nuts, I forgot to grab those wet leaves. I’m concerningly absent-minded.”

Back in the trees, Willow was gathering leaves. Wilson stooped down next to her and muttered: “I couldn’t do it.”

He waited for her to laugh or punch his arm, but she just looked sad. “It isn’t that easy, is it?”


	30. Mercy; or, Perhaps Someone Should Have A Talk With Wendy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok this one IS in the main continuity for these- it belongs with the "Wendy" one in particular. Also my amateur French is back. C'est dommage.
> 
> Oh and Wesfrid.

It happened on a warm fall day with the smell of the dying leaves in the air.

Wes watched dust motes by the ceiling darting in the last of the golden sunlight. He heard the approach- hesitant, creeping footsteps- before Wilson appeared above him.

“And how are you doing?” he asked.

Wes gave him a thumbs-up.

“Excellent. Give me your wrist, please.” Wilson felt for Wes’ pulse. “Well, I’m glad your heart isn’t silent.”

Ha.

Wilson let go of his hand and checked the bandages wrapped around Wes’ waist. “No sign of infection. Good.” He pressed the inside of his wrist to Wes’ forehead. “Feels normal.” He pulled away with a frown at the patch of makeup that had transferred to his skin. “Grease paint. Where do you get grease paint?”

It wasn’t grease paint, but that wasn’t important. Wes mimed walking with his fingers in his palm, and looked pleading.

“Oh, no no no,” said Wilson with a hint of a sigh, sitting down on the edge of the bed, “you’d better stay here a few more days, I think. Say, wouldn’t you be more comfortable with that stuff off your face? I’d be happy to clean it off, if so...”

Wes shook his head. Wilson shrugged one shoulder. “Suit yourself.”

The only other occupied bed in the infirmary tent was in the corner, filled with Wolfgang’s massive body. Wendy sat beside him, looking contemplative.

Wes gestured in their direction. Wilson’s face showed everything Wes needed to know before he spoke. “He’s doing fine.”

No he wasn’t.

“Just a bit of… bit of partial paralysis,” Wilson mumbled.

On Wolfgang? But not being able to exercise would break his heart. _Le pauvre._

“Don’t worry about it,” Wilson said. “You ought to rest and recover from your own wounds.” He reached over and tried to fluff Wes’ pillows while Wes was still using them. Wes politely waved him off.

Wilson got to his feet, sighing. “Do you need anything? Anything at all?”

 _Ne direz pas que je dois parler si j’ai besoin de quelque chose,_ Wes thought. Those jokes had a shorter shelf life than his friends seemed to realize.

“No?” said Wilson. “All right. Good night.”

\---

“What are you doing? Stop! _Stop!”_

Wes broke from the embrace of sleep, and for long moments was able only to sit and blink. The corner of the tent where Wolfgang lay was the center of a commotion.

Wilson stepped away, arching his back and yanking on handfuls of his ungroomed hair. “No!”

Light filled the tent, and then Wolfgang was sitting up, dwarfing his attendants. “Wolfgang lives!” he boomed. “What happened?”

“You died,” Wendy said in a voice devoid of emotion, a voice far too cold for one so young.

Wolfgang shuddered. “Is not normal, dying and un-dying. Very bad…”

Wilson made a noise deep in his throat that was very like the whine of an abused dog.

“You tried, tiny man.” Wolfgang stood and flexed, reveling in the power of his body once again. “Ha! No more need for sick-person tent. I will return to sun!”

“Farewell,” said Wendy.

And he was gone.

Wilson rounded on Wendy. “I told you,” he sputtered. “I told you not t-to- I _told_ y- you!”

“I see no problem,” she replied. “Wolfgang is perfectly well now.”

“But he- he said-“

“I had the courage to do what you did not.”

Wes leaned in closer, while affecting the manner of one who was not listening.

“Courage? He asked us not to!” Wilson grabbed Wendy’s shoulders. “We offered, and he said no. When people don’t want to die, we don’t kill them! That’s the opposite of what doctors do, even I know that!”

“I am no doctor. And neither are you, Mr. Higgsbury. Kindly let go of me.”

Wilson let go and began pacing, running his fingers through his hair. “You’re playing with fire, Wendy.”

“I had thought that was _your_ inclination.”

Wilson paused in his pacing. “Huh?” He hadn’t understood that jab? Not the most astute fellow.

Footsteps were approaching!

Wes turned his head. Wickerbottom appeared in the entrance to the tent. She looked pleasantly dramatic, silhouetted in the light there. Wigfrid would have enjoyed the effect.

Wickerbottom stepped closer. She nodded to Wes in acknowledgement before turning to the others. “Greetings, young ones. How have you fared in my absence? Oh, oh dear.” Her gaze had fallen on the empty cot. “What happened to poor Wolfgang?”

“N-nothing happened to him! He’s better,” Wilson stammered. He was a very poor actor, and well aware of it.

“Wolfgang’s spine had fractured. There was no possibility of his recovery unless he were to die first. Now, how did it happen?”

Wendy began to speak, but Wilson interrupted, his brassy squawk bulldozing her soprano sigh of a voice. “It was my fault. I made an error measuring his medicine, I’m… I’m _deeply_ sorry.”

Ah, a plot twist!

“Is that so,” said Wickerbottom serenely. “In that case, Mr. Higgsbury, I do not believe it would be wise for you to continue to run the infirmary in my absence. Please vacate the tent.”

Ah, another plot twist! Wigfrid would enjoy hearing about this. Wes would have to start planning out how to convey the incident to her.

Wilson blinked. “What, because my hand slipped while I was measuring the pain reliever?”

“Yes, dear. I can’t trust that you will not do it again.” Her deep calmness was surely hiding some sort of buried emotion, but she betrayed none of it. “This is important work. One cannot be certain that the ability to resurrect will not someday be lost, or repeated resurrections prove to have detrimental effects. Mistakes are intolerable.”

“But it was just one mistake.” The scientist’s hackles were rising.

Wickerbottom was glacial. “And there will not be another. Please leave.”

Wilson stared back at her for a moment.  He looked at Wendy. Her face did not betray her emotions either, if she indeed felt any.

Would the scientist’s injured ego drive him to defend his competence and give up the lie? What was compelling him to take the blame for Wendy’s actions to begin with? Surely it would be better to reveal the euthanizer and get her out of the infirmary.

Whatever reasons he had, they must have seemed to him to be good ones, because he said: “Very well.” And when he had said that, he turned on his heel and left.

Wickerbottom turned to Wendy and shook her head. “Sometimes I am at my end with that fellow! He is quite convinced that he knows a great deal more than he does.”

“He is a trial,” said Wendy.

“In our situation, such a trait is much more serious than mere eccentricity. His actions have caused a death!”

Wendy showed no signs of coming clean. Whatsoever. Whether she had any obligation to do so, Wes did not know. Perhaps not.

Wickerbottom noticed Wes then and came over to him. “Hello, dear! I do apologize for those dramatics. How are you faring?”

He gave her a thumbs-up.

Wickerbottom quickly checked his vital signs and the bandages. “Well, you seem to be mending nicely, dear. I dare say you don’t need to be here any longer.”

Wes mimed writing and Wickerbottom quickly provided him with pen and paper. He wrote her a brief note.

 _Wilson a dit que je dois rester ici._ And maybe he should stay. This place was surprisingly entertaining.

“He believes you ought to remain here, does he?” Wickerbottom translated aloud. “Oh, now, really, there’s no need for that. Simply be careful for a while, won’t you?”

That was a pretty plain “good-bye”. Wes nodded and got to his feet.

\---

On the way back to camp, he collected a whole backpack full of flower petals. When he had reached Wigfrid’s current quarters, he strew them all about, leaving the prettiest of the flowers to clench between his teeth as, shirtless, he awaited her return.

Later, they sat by the fire together, sharing a kabob. In between necking sessions he had managed to convey his dramatic tale.

“Ah! The fair maiden becomes the fair murderess,” Wigfrid mused. “And the one who ought to expose her deeds is covering for them. Why?”

Wes shrugged.

“I will force him to confess,” Wigfrid concluded. She was so direct, so… fierce.

Wes shook his head and tapped his chest. Finesse was needed here.

“Hmm, you believe you can do better,” she said. “Very well, silent one.” She turned and nuzzled his ear. “But there aren’t many things you can do better than I,” she whispered.

She would receive no argument there.

\---

It was late when Wes made his way over to Willow and Wilson’s camp.

Wes had not often ventured into this area of the island. The few times he had, Willow had chased him off for one reason or another. The whole place smelled of smoke and looked slightly… disheveled.

They were sitting on the opposite sides of the fire. They slept in separate tents and rarely even so much as brushed hands. Very demure, very chaste. And yet they were the subject of teasing, while Wes and Wigfrid enjoyed complete privacy. Odd, that. Perhaps the Americans’ uptightness made them an irresistible target.

And why were they so chaste, anyway?

Willow was speaking. “If you tell me what’s eatin’ you you can have a piece of cactus.”

“No.”

“Caaaactus,” Willow wheedled. “I picked all the spikes out. Just for yooou.”

“I don’t want any,” Wilson snapped.

Willow was unperturbed. “Yes you do. I cooked it special.”

“Liar, you stick everything in the fire.”

“Cactus. You love it.”

Maybe this pair had not enough mental maturity to enter into the blissful mysteries of physical love.

Wilson turned away from his companion, hunching over the journal pages in his lap. “I am not hungry.” He was facing Wes now. “Oh! Uh, hello, Wes!”

“Hey!” said Willow. “What’s the matter, Wes? Want something? Just ask!” She laughed to herself while Wes just looked at her. “Nah, but you want some food, right? I would’ve been by, but I thought Wigfrid was in town.”

He waved her off and pointed to Wilson.

He blinked. “Me? Oh, uh… do you need some assistance? I didn’t think you’d be up and about yet.”

Wes nodded and beckoned him closer. Wilson stood and Willow did as well. Wes motioned to her to sit down.

“Can’t I come too?” Willow asked.

Wes shook his head emphatically. He mimed disrobing.

Willow pulled away. “Okay then.”

Wilson looked less than pleased. “Let’s go into the trees here, then,” was all he said.

Once they were alone Wilson turned and asked: “Okay. What’s the problem? It’s in a sensitive area, I take it.”

Wes nodded.

“Show me where it is.”

Wes reached out and tapped the center of Wilson’s chest over his heart.

“I don’t follow,” he said.

Wes sat down on the ground, clasped his hands between his knees and looked up patiently.

Wilson stuck his hands in his pockets and frowned. “I really don’t follow.”

Wes picked a nearby flower and stuck it in his hair. He mimed weeping.

Wilson looked nonplussed. “Wendy? You want to talk about Wendy?”

Wes nodded and pretended to slit his own throat.

“Oh! You saw what happened today, didn’t you?”

Wes nodded.

“Okay,” said Wilson. “So… so what are you asking?”

Wes adopted Wickerbottom’s mannerisms. His imitation of her was complete, as he well knew- complete enough that Wilson’s eyes grew wide. “Very impressive, but I have no idea what you’re getting at, couldn’t you just… write it?”

Wes looked back in the direction of the camp and then at Wilson. He affected Willow’s questioning attitude.

“Stop that! I know it’s your calling, it’s what you do, but it’s terrifying.”

Wilson could be a very tiresome fellow. He had no feel for the arts.

Wes would try just staring at him for a while.

Wilson began to fidget. He was shorter than Wes, and not possessed of Wes’ supple, lean frame, but rather ground-hugging in stature; with his untended black hair he reminded Wes of the less attractive form of the island rabbits.

“Are you asking why she did it?” he asked finally, a touch querulous. “She thought it was kinder. Wolfgang can’t stand being limited, and he was just going to get eaten when the hounds came next anyway. I agreed with her, incidentally, but we put the question to Wolfgang and he didn’t want to die, and that should have been that.”

Wes took on Wickerbottom’s aspect and was rewarded with a shudder. “You want to know why I didn’t tell Wickerbottom?”

Yes.

“Well, she’s a bit…” Wilson stopped and cleared his throat. “You see, I thought I should probably just… look, I don’t… I don’t want to, uh…”

Wes mimed zipping his lips and lay down on the ground with his hands folded over his chests.

“Yes, yes, silent as the grave,” Wilson muttered, nudging Wes’ side with the toe of his shoe. He wore strictly serviceable black oxfords that had been repaired by someone more concerned with function over appearance- probably Wilson himself, maybe Willow if she had been feeling generous, which she often did.

Wilson’s shoelaces were missing, replaced with makeshift twists of grass to hold the shoes in place. The shoelaces had gone to a more worthy project, no doubt.

Wes sat up and looked plaintive.

Wilson glanced around, probably to make sure no one was listening- sensible, the people on this island were terrible gossips- and sighed. “Wickerbottom can be a touch austere.” He squinted suspiciously at Wes. “And I know you write to her. Don’t you _dare_ tell her I said that!”

Wes nodded with wide, honest eyes. Privately he felt that Wickerbottom knew she was austere and would not be offended in the least, but he wasn’t going to spill secrets told him in confidence anyway.

“Wendy’s a child, young, reckless…” His tone was musing. “She’s not a murderess… she believed she was doing the right thing.” He was touching his own neck, over the jugular vein. “I think she deserves a second chance… I don’t know if Wickerbottom would give her one. Wendy helps in the infirmary tent all the time, it’s her purpose. She needs a purpose. I mean, you saw what happened when I told Wickerbottom I’d done it, she kicked me right out.”

Wickerbottom may have been looking for an excuse to get Wilson out of the tent. He was fidgety and tiresome and made people stay in bed when they were perfectly well. He was also regrettably prone to think himself equal to his betters.

Wes would never convey this information, of course, it would only be hurtful to no purpose.

“And she let you leave, I see,” Wilson muttered. “She oughtn’t to have done that. Bah, she’s a librarian, not a…” He checked himself. “I mean… look at you, you’re sweating. You haven’t been doing anything strenuous, have you?”

Strenuous? Wes? Perish the thought.

“If you tell Wickerbottom I criticized her I’ll kill you,” Wilson said, somewhat abruptly.

Wes raised his eyebrows.

“Not literally!” Wilson looked away with a faint scowl.

Wes took on Willow’s mannerisms.

“Why won’t I tell Willow? Because if she disagreed with me she’d immediately tell Wickerbottom everything! Her principles are more important to her than whatever I’m up to.” His gaze took on a dreamy cast. It would seem that firm principles in a woman were to Wilson what fierceness was to Wes. Certainly Willow’s warm, energetic personality was a much bigger draw than her looks. She was rather plain as women went, slim and boyish- certainly no busty, red-headed Wigfrid.

But Wilson seemed to like her well enough. It was probably his cold English blood that kept him from following through with it. That or his looks. He would have a chance of being handsome in the face- if a touch sharp- if he would groom himself and stop looking so sallow and irritable. But he would not groom himself or stop looking so sallow and irritable.  _Le pauvre._

Wilson shook himself out of his reverie. “Is that all?”

Wes shrugged. Yes.

“Okay then.” Wilson squinted into the sky. “Some light left. I should go talk to Wendy. She’s always a bit more open to hearing me out when it starts to get dark. Er, you don’t need anything?”

Wes shook his head.

Wilson nodded and trotted off.

\---

Wigfrid had hewn herself a stone goblet, which she occasionally filled with fermented berry juice. She swirled the red liquid contemplatively now.

“I would not have left the librarian unwarned,” she said. “Wendy has tasted blood. It is a good taste.” She sipped her drink. “This may lead to further trouble.”

Wes shrugged.


	31. Meat Effigy; or, That Really Was The Only Thing He Did Though

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This works on single-player game mechanics. Otherwise it doesn't make a lot of sense.
> 
> This one is definitely in the same continuity as the 'Wendy' chapter.

“Scribe!”

Wilson raised his head. Wigfrid loomed over him, blotting out the light.

“Er, yes?” he asked.

“Tomorrow Wolfgang, Wes and I are embarking on a quest. I will require three statues of meat as a safety measure!”

Wilson set down the rope he had been making. “Three?”

Wigfrid nodded. “Yes!”

“Three, as in- the number between two and four?”

She clapped his shoulder. “Indeed!” She straightened up to her full height. “I need them by dawn tomorrow. If you require more meat, my stores are ample! This will be an epic quest, the likes of-” She cast a disapproving glance at the grasses spread out on the ground. “What are you making?”

“I was gonna make a bed roll,” he said. It was turning out kind of sloppy.

“Do you require assistance, scribe! The silent one Wes is a most accomplished weaver!”

“I can do it myself thanks.” Did Wes know Wigfrid was offering to hire him out like that?

“Very well!” Wigfrid announced. “I will return after my quest! I have faith in you, scribe!”

If Wilson had cared to argue, it was already too late- she was gone.

What had she wanted? Three meat effigies. Very specifically three of them. One for her and one for each of her two companions, apparently.

That shouldn’t pose a problem, Woodie had a nearly infinite supply of logs, and of course Wigfrid had the meat, and Wilson had accumulated a whole sack full of beard trimmings (much to Willow’s disgust). Right, that would be fine…

There was already one statue up, so if he made three more, that would be four. That was rather a lot. But it wasn’t five, so that would be alright! Five was… definitely the limit. Four was under the limit. Four would be just fine!

Wilson found a hangnail to nibble on.

\---

Woodie was often not at home. A large (wooden) sign propped up on his (wooden) camp walls proclaimed in carved-out letters (because he would not use charcoal): _If I’m not here and you need wood, take it from the stash. Have a nice day!_

The ‘stash’ was a giant, ever-present pile of logs in the center of the camp. Wilson never understood how the man could sleep next to it. Wasn’t he afraid of an avalanche?

Wilson knocked on the wall. He never used wood for walls himself, too flammable, but it was nice and satisfying to knock on. “Hello?”

“Hey! Come on in, bud!” Woodie was home today.

Wilson stuck his head inside. Woodie was re-arranging the stash, which threatened to drown his sleeping quarters.

“I can take some of that off your hands,” Wilson said.

“Help yourself, mate. Project?”

“Indeed.” Wilson began to load up his backpack. Hmm, four planks per statue… one couldn’t make a really good plank without a few logs… he’d need a lot of logs.

Woodie had more than enough, though. The only problem would be carrying them.

Wilson’s backpack would hold about half of what he needed, but he could only physically carry about a quarter of it. He’d have to make a few trips…

“Need a hand?” Woodie offered.

“Aren’t you busy?”

“Nah, not really. It’s my day off! Here, I’ll take this.” He scooped up the rest of the needed supplies. “Help a friend out, eh?”

“Oh, uh… thank you.”

They headed out onto the path. “I should do something for you,” Wilson said. “I bet your science machine could use some upgrading!”

“Nah, I use the one at the main camp.”

“Oh, okay. Maybe you’d like a new chest, or-”

“I’ve got plenty! What are you building with all this anyway? Some sort ‘o weather machine, or a hot air balloon, or?...”

“Just more effigies.”

“Oh! Good, eh? You look great in wood.” But he had shuddered. Wilson had seen him.

“I just want to make sure everyone gets to, you know, stick around this plane of existence a little longer,” he said, to break the ice somewhat.

Woodie didn’t seem to get the joke. Perhaps it was a little obscure. They were carrying logs, not sticks.

Perhaps Wilson should just shut up.

\---

He’d discovered them on his own, sometime before meeting Willow. A few months, probably. Or weeks. Half a year? Whatever. Something like that.

The others had not believed him, of course, when he began to put them up in camp. They had humored him, which was sort of worse than laughing. People always seemed to think Wilson didn’t know when he was being pitied. It never occurred to them that maybe he was just too polite to tell them to go screw themselves.

Of course one day Wolfgang had found something stronger than himself on the island and they had learned then! They had all learned! And they had stopped looking pitying. Though neither had they looked strictly admiring…

People also seemed to think Wilson didn’t notice when they found him slightly unsettling.

Well, whatever. They needed the effigies and Wilson continued to put them up. It wasn’t very comfortable to have them up, but what were quaking nausea, pounding headaches and shaking hands in the face of _immortality?_

Four statues, though, would be a bit much…

Perhaps he would have said no, if it had been anyone but Wigfrid. The entire camp would perish without Wigfrid there. She was the best hunter and the best guard. Whereas if Wilson were too ill to do very much for a few days, well, it wasn’t as if no one would _notice,_ but-

Not very many people would notice.

He was brought out of his reverie with the dimming of the sky. He set down the half-made plank, yawned, stretched the kinks out of his back, picked a few splinters out of his fingers and began to build up the fire. Willow would be back soon, she’d want a fire. Provided she chose not to sleep over at Wigfrid’s camp, of course. In which case Wilson would go to bed this time when it began to get dark, and not sit up all night trembling and imagining her being torn apart by dogs. She could take care of herself.

If she did come home, she’d want the fire… she’d want supper. He should make something to eat.

The ice box had a nice beefalo steak in it. Wigfrid had given it to them, of course. See, they needed her!

He started the food cooking and lifted his head to see Willow approaching. Oh, thank goodness!

Come to think of it, she hadn’t been mysteriously out at night since before… Maxwell had been freed. It was nice to have her around. “Welcome back!” he said.

“Well, look at that! You made me a nice fire,” she said, sitting down next to it.

“Yes! Just for you!”

“You spoil me.”

“And I made dinner,” he said, hastily retrieving the cooked meat and dividing it into halves.

“Aw, gee, thanks!” She took her piece and nibbled on it. 

He wasn’t very hungry but he started eating his own piece of steak. It wasn’t actually all that good, he’d let it cook too long. If that bothered Willow, she didn’t say anything about it.

“What’d you do today?” he asked.

“Stole stuff.”

“Uh-“

She took a fair-sized pot of honey out of her backpack.

“That belongs to WX-78,” he said.

“It used to belong to WX-78. That’s what ‘stole’ means.”

“That machine can be vicious and will eventually catch on to you.” As if she’d listen to him. Here was another reason to keep plenty of statues around.

“Eh, it’ll be fine.” She tucked the honey jar away in her nearest chest and sat back down to finish her dinner.

He twiddled his thumbs.

“You’re not eating,” she pointed out. “Did you poison me?”

“Mine is dry.” And he was kind of feeling tense in the stomach, thinking about having four of those effigies up.

“Put some of my new fresh honey on it. It’ll taste good.” Having finished her food, she fished out a piece of wood from her pocket and started carving it at an amiable pace.

“Maybe later.”

Willow continued carving. She was making a cunning little model of a catcoon. Adorable.

“That’s a nice carving,” he said.

“Thanks. I _am_ pretty good, huh? Hey, what did you do today? You asked about me, what did you do?”

“Oh, uh, Wigfrid asked me for some effigies, so I’ve just been making boards for them…”

“Want some help?”

“No, for crying out loud, don’t help me!”

She looked up, startled.

Wilson turned away to tend the fire, which was burning only slightly more brightly than his face at the moment. “I mean, I’ve got a handle on it. You’ve already done your work today! It’s quite alright!”

“Well, like, I’m not doing anything. I’m just sitting here carving a kitty.”

“Oh, I… guess…” He did have an awful lot to do. He’d be up all night if he didn’t let her help. “But it’s _my_ job!”

Willow sighed. “Just let me help, will ya? It’ll be done faster. Here, give me the logs.”

He gave her the logs.

\---

Even with her help, it was midnight by the time the work was finished.

Wilson set the last piece of wood into place and slipped down to the ground. His pulse hammered in the back of his throat.

“There!” Willow dusted off her palms. “Look at that, pretty as a picture. And you didn’t want to let me help.”

“Silly of me,” Wilson said. “Well, I’m off to bed.”

“Bed! The night is young.”

“How can you stay up all night all the time?”

“Fire keeps me going.”

“It doesn’t keep me going. Good night.”

“Good night.”

He crawled into the tent and collapsed, trembling.

He could hear Willow pattering around outside.

‘By the way, Willow, those meat statues each lock up a chunk of my life force, so if I seem sluggish tomorrow-‘ no, he couldn’t tell her! She’d feel bad about everyone’s reliance on the statues if she knew they hurt him. She was nice like that.

She would figure it out eventually. She was bright and she spent so much time with him that she would observe the effects. But the longer he delayed that, the less time she knew, and the less time she had to feel bad about it. So he would not tell her.

Simple!

And so he went to sleep with a clear conscience. (On the subject of the effigies, anyhow.)

\---

“Wilson?”

 “What is it?” He tried to sit up and was still sort of asleep, so he ended up in a half-upright corkscrew position. “Dogs? Dogs? Izzit dogs?”

Willow’s voice was muffled through the tent fabric. “No, you just slept in, that’s all. So, like, Wigfrid hasn’t been by. I know she wanted those statues up…”

“They’re up.”

“Yeah, I know. Is she coming by to check on them?”

“She said she trusted me,” he said. “I guess that means no. She’ll assume they’re there…” Such was her usual way.

“Okay. I’m gonna go do some stuff, then. Bye!”

“Bye,” he mumbled.

Better get up, then.

He crawled out of the tent. His muscles felt like limp rubber. Time to, uh… make ropes, or something. Something that involved staying in camp, ideally, because he sure couldn’t run.

He sat down by the glowing embers of the fire pit (Willow could never bear to extinguish it), rubbing his eyes. Maybe he could start off by organizing his notes. That was an un-taxing task.

Suddenly, he had the strong feeling that he was being watched!

He looked up. He was not being watched, but Willow was standing by one of the newly-built statues. She had her hand pressed to the place where its heart would be if it hadn’t been just a statue.

She turned to look at him.

“What the devil are you doing?” he asked. There were goosebumps on his arms.

“Experiment.”

“How is that an experiment?” _Don’t touch me like that,_ he wanted to add, but didn’t because that would be an insane thing to say. Completely insane!

“It has a heartbeat,” she said.

Wilson recoiled.

“Well,” said Willow, “I’m goin’ out.”

“Oh… okay…”

Wilson staggered up to the effigy once she was gone and placed his own hand on its chest.

Nothing.

“She was joking,” he said to himself. Yes, that must have been it!

Joking.

Speaking of jokers. He had never been able to find a better way to make the effigies in the past, but now there was someone here who might know a little more about them than he did.

If Wilson chose to debase himself enough to ask…

\---

“What do I know that you don't? Nothing.”

Wilson could hardly say he was surprised, exactly, that the old fellow was being stubborn.

He leaned back, folding his arms over his chest. “Nothing. Of course.”

Maxwell shook his head, rolled his eyes and looked away. A half-made basket trap sat in his lap, nearly obscured by long, bony fingers. It wasn’t very well-made. Wilson was itching to grab it and redo it. This must be how his friends felt about him all the time.

“I can’t _make_ you believe me, I suppose,” Maxwell drawled, “but it’s the truth. I know exactly as much about those things as you do. You brought them here with you, after all.”

“Did I now?”

“Every one of you little mortals brought something with you. You may as well ask me about Woodie’s axe, or Willow’s lighter.”

“So it wasn’t you who put the limits on my effigies,” said Wilson. Or that was his story, at any rate.

“No, They were never going to let you play forever.”

“And you wouldn’t know how to un-limit them?”

“Can’t be done.”

“I don’t suppose you’ll be changing this story…”

Maxwell shrugged. “Truth hurts. Tell ya some more truth, pal- I didn’t even know there were limits on those things until you told me. Move along now, won’t you?”

“I suppose since you won’t be any help at all.” Maxwell probably knew more than he was telling, but if he wouldn’t share, it would amount to the same thing.

Also he smelled like an old person. And Wilson was not up to dealing with that.

\---

One more errand and then he could rest back at camp.

There was a chill in the air here, a sign- erected by Wickerbottom, judging by the neat handwriting- reading DANGER.

A convenient tree stump at the side of the path just the right height for a seat. Wilson sat down on it and waited.

The surroundings grew dim and pale and the trees began to droop. Shadows flickered in the corners of his eyes. They wouldn’t hurt anyone, of course, not unless one panicked!

She may or may not come. He’d wait a little while and see.

Something was moving in the tree branches above his head. A large cat.

“Well, I’ve often seen a cat without a grin,” he said conversationally.

The cat looked down at him. Maybe it was supposed to be some sort of funereal version of a Cheshire cat, but it had no grin, just large, soulful blue eyes. _(What have you come to ask?)_

“I just thought I’d ask why you won’t let us in to look for you, is all.”

_(Surely that can’t be it. You have your answer. I’m certain you wouldn’t be so uninteresting as to ask again.)_

“Aren’t you lonely?”

_(How could I be lonely when you come and talk to me every day, whether you are invited or not?)_

Wilson shrugged.

_(It galls you, I see, not to be allowed to martyr yourself at my feet.)_

“Oh, it probably wouldn’t be me. Anyone here would take your place! Just say the word if you want to come back…”

The cat blinked at him gloomily. _(You have given a piece of yourself away again, scientist.)_

He didn't know what she meant by that, and he was pretty sure it was just meant to distract him anyway, so he'd ignore it.

“Let’s not talk about me,” said Wilson. “Let’s talk about you. I know Abigail misses you. She never gets to see you in person anymore.”

_(They need you. They can’t leave you if they need you. I understand. Nothing else matters, if you can just make sure they can’t leave you. What does it matter if the force that sustains them is ripped from your own beating heart? Your friends will never be parted from you, bonded by ties of obligation that now cannot be severed even by death.)_

“I’ve been down there too, as you well know! It’s pretty awful, isn’t it? And it’s easy, isn’t it, to start to feel that you deserve it? Of course you don’t deserve it. Nothing you could have possibly done could make you deserve it. You’re only a little girl.”

_(Yes, it is easy, after having something for a while, to begin to feel as if one deserves it. What does one deserve if all one has to offer is suffering?)_

“Anyone here would take your place. You could take your pick.”

_(I choose… Maxwell.)_

Wilson thought about that for a minute. He had promised her _anyone_ on the island. She was testing him, no doubt. “I’ll- I’ll ask him. Well, we could always try to make him go do it…”

_(You tire me, Wilson.)_

And just like that, she was gone. The light had returned.

It hurt his eyes. He took a few deep breaths and got to his feet. His head was pounding.

Maybe tomorrow she’d listen.

\---

In the afternoon Wolfgang stopped by while Wilson was sitting by the fire hunched over a wooden bucket.

Wolfgang stood there, looked Wilson over, noted no doubt the beads of sweat on his face and his ashen complexion, and said: “Ah! Small man is doing funny experiment?”

“Yeah,” Wilson croaked. “Sure.”

“Wigfrid and mighty Wolfgang are back from quest with smart leader Wes!”

“Oh, okay.” Wes, the leader? Something must’ve gotten lost in translation there. Unless Wolfgang was employing some rare sarcasm. How would Wes even give commands?

“I am here to ask your help, brainy man!”

“Oh?”

“I have splinter in mighty foot!” Wolfgang proffered the affected limb. It reeked. “Remove with tiny doctor hands!”

“Okay. Sure.” Wilson set down his bucket and set himself to removing the splinter. An easy enough job, but with the challenge of ‘not fainting in front of the strongman’ to make it interesting. “So I notice none of you died today.”

“Ha ha, no! No dyings! Only mighty Wolfgang punching baddies to death!”

“And no one else is out doing anything dangerous, I take it…”

What in the name of Tesla was he asking? Was Wilson really sitting here hoping one of his friends would die so that one of those statues would be freed up? How very Maxwellian. Perhaps the abyss had stared into him.

“Maybe so!” boomed Wolfgang. “I hear that smart brain lady Wickerbottom is also searching for Wendy today!”

“Searching for Wendy? You were- that was your quest? Looking for Wendy?”

“Da!”

Wilson must have removed the splinter at some point, because he was holding it now. He flicked it into the fire. “You- but- do you need any help?”

“HA! No.” Wolfgang reached down and

“Oh no no no no don’t-“

Too late, Wolfgang had messed up his hair.

“Help? Tiny Wilson is funny, nice crazy little man.” And Wolfgang actually _tweaked his nose_ like Wilson’s very least favorite grand-uncle used to do. (The grand-uncle had not been a well-meaning strongman with the aspect of a barely tame bear. Just an obnoxious old fart.)

“Okay,” said Wilson, reeling back and trying to smooth his hair.

“I have to go back,” Wolfgang rumbled. “Thank you, tiny man!” He turned away.

Wilson cleared his throat. “Wait though! You don’t want any supplies?”

“We have plenty!”

“And you don’t need any… blueprints? Maps? I’ve sketched a few maps-“

“We have maps!”

Uh… “Do you need a fifth statue?”

\---

It wasn’t actually even possible for Wilson to make a fifth statue. He shouldn’t have offered that.

The sun was setting. He lay curled up on his side by the fire on his stupid, poorly-made grass mat. He was perfectly capable of making a better bed roll. He just hadn’t bothered to put the time in, and now there were pebbles sticking up through it… even though he’d just swept out the whole camp and there shouldn’t _be_ any pebbles…

He thought of Maxwell’s awful trap. Maxwell would probably get the hang of things. Eventually maybe Wilson would too.

He should be out looking for Wendy with the others. He should just go. Maybe interrogate Maxwell a little first. Smack him around. He’d have to wait for one of these statues to be gone first, was all, or he wouldn’t get far…

Oh, there was Willow. He sat up. “Welcome back!”

“Hello!” She squatted and stoked up the fire.

“I didn’t make any dinner,” he said, lying back down. “Sorry.”

“That’s okay, I’ll make dinner.” She addressed the fire: “Wilson hasn’t been feeding _you_ either, has he?”

She trailed her fingers through the flames. She seemed to enjoy that so much.

“So what have you been up to? Burn anything interesting?”

“Not really!” She shrugged.

He coughed weakly.

She went to the ice box and came back with a rabbit haunch, which she held in the fire. “You don’t seem very perky today,” she said.

“I’m a little under the weather.”

“Gee. Too bad. Want me to make you something with that nice honey I stole?”

She shouldn’t put herself out to do that, but he should probably have something to eat, he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. And, selfishly, he wanted her to make him something. He liked it when people he thought well of made food for him. It was comforting.

“How sweet of you to offer,” he said in the end. Very noncommittal. Not a refusal by any means, though.

She snorted and went back to the ice box. “You cleaned up the camp,” she noted. “Gee, you must _really_ be sick.”

“Eh?”

“When you’re sick you clean up the camp. Every time. I’ve been meaning to ask, like, why do you do that?”

“I, uh… I wasn’t aware… I suppose it’s because I don’t like to leave home if I can’t run back. So I stay in the base and do chores.”

“I thought it was a germs thing.”

He shrugged.

She started the crock pot going and sat down across the fire pit from him, leaning forward and fixing him with an intense stare. “So, your statues.”

Ah. She’d figured it out! That was a weight off. “They take away chunks of my life force!”

Willow’s eyes bulged. Oh! She hadn’t figured it out! Oh.

“Metaphorically, I mean,” said Wilson.

“I was just going to ask why they feel all warm! It’s because they have pieces of your _soul_ in them?”

“No, of course not, did I say anything about my soul? Nooo!”

“Is that why you’re sick?” she asked.

“Well, yes.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “Individually, the statues don’t take a lot of life force, but when four are all up, it’s a little much…”

“Then _why_ did you put four up?!”

“Wigfrid wanted them.”

“But your _soul!”_

“There’s nothing wrong with my soul!” he snapped. “Look, would you rather Wigfrid _dies_ forever? We already lost her once and I had to bring her back! From hell!”

Willow did not look exactly appeased by this. “What… do you mean?”

“I don’t… I don’t know! I don’t remember the details… she was killed by frogs, because I didn’t have the statues up, and then she was on another island…”

“But she’s back now?”

“Don’t ask me any more about it! I don’t know how to explain any of that stuff.” He looked away. “What were we talking about? Oh, the effigies. They’re important.”

Willow turned her head to look at the effigies. “Isn’t there a better way?!”

“No, I’ve tried other ways of making them and they just don’t work. Well, of course there are the amulets, but one has to be _wearing_ them, so they’re not always good for unexpected accidents. You know.” He shuddered.

“But there has to be a better way than putting your soul in these things!”

“The touch stones were nice, but they’re gone. All of them. Every _one_ of them, Willow! I tried to bring them back, but their power was beyond me.”

“You what?”

“I just couldn’t get it. Maybe Wendy can-“ He gulped and looked away.

“Wendy?”

Wendy was _not_ enjoying her newfound power, she was a child. She must be in torment. 

“Look,” she said, seeing the look on his face. “I know you feel bad about Wendy and all but it wasn’t your fault that-“

“Not my fault? How is it not my fault?”

“Well-“

“She wouldn’t have gone anywhere near that place if I hadn’t gone, so how is it not my fault? Someone better able to use that power could have kept her out, so how is it not my fault? I had a nervous breakdown instead of finding her and bringing her back, so how is it not my fault? I still can’t bring her back, so how is it not my fault?”

Willow calmly waited.

“It’s completely my fault,” Wilson concluded.

“Did you ever want anything bad to happen to Wendy?”

“No!” He saw where she was going with this. “But my incompetence is still my fault!”

“Can anyone find her? Anyone at _all?”_

“No, but-“

“Can _Wickerbottom_ think of a way to find her?”

“No, b- but-“

“I don’t know what they taught you in science school but if you want good things to happen and people get hurt instead, it’s not your fault. Remember that big forest fire?”

“Yes…”

“Was that my fault? I enjoyed it, but was it my fault?”

“No, it was an accident.”

She waited a moment and then said: “Is there anything else?”

“No, there’s nothing else.”

“Do you feel better?”

“Feel better? No, I don’t feel better. Why do you care how I feel?”

“Because I like you.”

“I’m a wretched man,” he said.

She sat down next to him and tucked her arm around his waist. “I still like you.”

“Don’t like me.”

“No, you’re my friend, and I like you.”

She cheerfully pretended not to notice while he pretended to have something in his eye.

 “I want to help lil Wendy too,” she said, “but I can’t find her. _Nobody_ can find a way to get to her. Because she’s keeping us out. And you’re right here, and you need help too.”

“’Kay.”

“So don’t feel bad about it.”

“’Kay.” He wiped his nose on his sleeve.

Willow offered him a handkerchief. He took it and hid his face in it.

“Did you lose yours again?” she asked. “Where do they go?”

“I think I used it to tie up a loose joint on Wickerbottom’s cloud meter,” he mumbled.

She patted his back.

\---

“Wilson! Wilson, c’mon!”

He looked up from his eggs. “Oh, hello!” She had been out when he woke up. “Good morning.”

She rushed over and hauled him to his feet by the wrist. “C’mon, c’mon.”

“I haven’t finished my-“

“Just _c’mon!_ I fixed all your problems. Come see! You can finish that on the way.”

He was thus persuaded to cram the rest of the eggs into his mouth and follow her to the center of the main camp, where Wickerbottom was standing next to...

It was an effigy.

But it wasn’t one of the ones he’d made by the camp. Or maybe it was, but it was in the wrong place.

“I didn’t put that there,” he said stupidly.

“No, silly. We did.” Willow placed the palm of her hand lightly against the small of his back. “It looks one hundred percent genuine, doesn’t it?”

“You made it?”

“Yes. And it works, we tested it!”

“You _tested_ it?” Wilson squeaked.

Wickerbottom cleared her throat. “I was not consulted beforehand.” Of course she would have forbidden something so dangerous.

“You guys made this?” He walked around it. It looked just like one of his, except a bit better carved. Willow had probably been the one to carve it. “You can make them?” It had never occurred to him that just because he’d invented them and contributed the hair clippings, that didn’t mean he had to be the one to build them.

“Yep! Now everyone can make one, and we’ll have ten statues up all the time, and no one will lose all their life force,” she said.

“But everyone will lose some of their life force-“

“The effects of one statue are hardly noticeable, dear,” said Wickerbottom. “Really, there was no need for this to go on as long as it did! I did not know the multiple statues put such a drain on you.”

Her tone said ‘you really might have told us’…

He jumped, hearing a sudden noise. It was just WX-78, pawing through the camp stores and paying nobody any mind.

Wilson looked back at the effigy. “It looks like me,” he said. “Why did you make it look like me? If I may ask?”

“It seemed prudent not to temper with a working formula,” said Wickerbottom. “And somewhat fitting, I suppose. After all, you invented them.”

“Well, I heard about… I mean… I guess I did.”

“And you also supply a, hem, needed ingredient.”

Willow nudged him in the ribs. “Didn’t you say someday they would make a statue of you?”

“I don’t recall…” Yes, he had said that, he had hoped she’d forgotten.

“Well, we’re going to make _ten_ statues of you,” she joked.

“Ah, that’s… really good of you.”

A clattering sound. WX-78 was not finding what it was looking for, apparently.

“What are you looking for?” Willow asked it. “You are making a lot of noise.”

“I REQUIRE A BUG NET. MY BEE BOXES ARE NOT PRODUCING HONEY. I NEED MORE BEES.”

Wilson turned to look at Willow. She was utterly calm. “Well, can ya keep it down?”

“If you need honey, uh…” Wilson started to say. WX talked over him.

“YOU’RE DONE ANYWAY AREN’T YOU.”

“Well, I think s-“

“Maybe we are and maybe we aren’t,” said Willow.

“YOU ARE DONE,” said WX-78. “YOU HAVE COMPLETELY EXPLAINED WHY THE SCIENTIST IS NOW USELESS. HA.”

“What are you talking about?” Willow snapped.

“THAT WAS LIKE THE ONLY THING HE DID AROUND HERE,” WX-78 said.

“No it wasn’t!”

“IT TOTALLY WAS. THERE IS NO SILK HERE. I WILL ASK THE SPIDER CHILD.”

“Oh, don’t pay that rambunctious robot any mind, dears,” said Wickerbottom, rolling her ‘r’s with satisfaction. Wilson had never learned to roll his ‘r’s. “It has not a small grudge against your species in general. A quite skewed opinion, I’d say.”

It had a point, though.

\---

“Willow?” he asked on the walk back to camp.

She turned to him, looking very bright. “Yeeees?”

He had wanted to ask something along the lines of _Why do you spend so much time with me? Aren’t I a little obnoxious?_ but maybe he should just accept it.

What was it Wendy had hinted to him yesterday? ‘They can’t leave you if they need you.’ Implying that one motive for generosity was to obligate one’s friends to stick around. Wilson sure wouldn’t get far without Willow…

Ha! There was no way she was anywhere near insecure enough to tolerate someone she didn’t like simply to alleviate some fear of abandonment- a fear she had never shown or alluded to, which she more than likely did not even have! Besides, she had other friends and wasn’t in desperate need for a hanger-on. He must just not be as annoying as his cousins had always told him.

“Nothing,” he said.


	32. Chester; or, more melodrama but about a dog

A living, moving eyeball- sitting atop a dead bone?

Wilson picked it up, of course. It felt warm in his hand, like body heat; a mild pulse of life ran through it.

But surely all the structures necessary for life were not contained in a _bone!_ And the eyeball had tiny horns. How did that work?

He swung the bone through the air, tapped it all over with his fingernails, and wondered if he were going mad.

The eye looked directly into his own, blinked, and looked away.

Of course, maybe it only looked like a bone, maybe it was really some kind of shell or exoskeleton that housed a complete creature; or on the other hand the bone might be real but the eyeball might be part of a parasitic creature that had crawled into it and made it _into_ a shell, like a hermit crab. Yes… there were possibilities…

Maybe he was just hallucinating the whole thing. It wouldn’t be too surprising- he was hungry and dehydrated and infection could set into that gash in his leg at any time. Of all the images a malfunctioning human brain could have presented him with, a bone with an eyeball on it was really pretty tame!

Anyway. What was that noise?

It was coming closer, definitely the sound of an approach. He looked over his shoulder. Some bouncing furry thing, the size of a large dog. It had horns and teeth.

That could also be a hallucination but he’d run from it anyway.

He maintained a good speed for about thirty seconds and then his weakened body began to slow down, to heave for air, and to lag closer to the pursuing beast. There was only so much urging that would have effect on a hunk of flesh that had been mauled, starved and exposed to the elements for weeks. He stumbled and fell to his knees.

The instinct for survival was fascinating. Wilson was going to die in this place sooner or later. He was aching for food, he was chilled to the bone from the rain, he was slower than his predators and had survived yesterday’s wolves or dogs or whatever by sheer luck. His leg was hurt and he probably smelled of blood. If he did survive, he had only hell in isolation to look forward to!

Yet he was compelled to live. Wilson had tried to lie down and die, since it was efficient and inevitable, but he couldn’t manage it. He wanted to live.

And whomever- whatever- that horrible cretin that had brought him here was, that Maxwell, he wanted Wilson to die.

He fumbled the spear out of his backpack. It was still crusty with blue blood; he had not had the heart or the strength to try cleaning it after last night’s incident. It would still stab.

He struggled to his feet and raised the spear.

His pursuer had stopped some feet away. It was just standing there, waiting. It appeared to be panting for breath almost as hard as Wilson was, a pink tongue lolling.

“Don’t come any closer,” Wilson wheezed. “Don’t…” Why was he talking to the thing? It wouldn’t understand him. “I’ll kill you, I will! I’ve killed things!”

The thing wasn’t attacking him. It had no visible eyes, perhaps it couldn’t see him there.

Wait, eyes- the horns on its head. There were similar horns on the eye-bone thing he’d found! It had only showed up when Wilson picked up the bone!

Wilson showed the bone to the creature. “Is this what you want? Eh?”

No reply, of course, just panting.

Wilson threw the bone as hard as his aching joints and trembling limbs would allow. “Fetch!”

The creature bounced off after its bone. Wilson sighed and tucked the spear back into his backpack. It was better, of course, _not_ to fight. It was better to escape.

So he turned and stumbled away as quickly as he could.

Best to put as much distance between him and that thing as possible! His leg was sore, but it would only get stiff if he rested it, anyway. He kept going and only slowed to a halt when he noticed that he was surrounded by clusters of red.

His mad dash away from the monster had led him to an area of the island that abounded with berry bushes. Ha! Maxwell’s attempt to destroy him had only provided him with food!

Wilson shook his fist at the sky and immediately afterwards cleared his throat, shuffled his feet and stuffed his hands into his pockets. There was no call for emotional displays.

* * *

The berries appeared to be mildly poisonous.

Or maybe ten bushes’ worth of them was just too many for a half-starved man.

Wilson shuddered and hugged his knees, scooting a little closer to the fire. The best cure for a stomachache, in his experience, was a blanket, time, and self-pity. Two out of three wasn’t bad, really.

It would behoove him not to be doubled over with cramps if more of those black toothy monsters showed up, though. Maybe in the future a little more self-control would be in order. He’d just been so hungry…

He jumped. Something was glinting in the grass.

Something was _looking at him_ in the grass. The eye-bone, or perhaps another eye-bone just like it. For all he knew the place could be full of them!

Picking that up hadn’t worked out so well the first time.

Wilson picked it up. He really wasn’t so good at self-control.

It was such a _strange_ little thing… it looked like an ordinary bone, apart from the eyeball on top of it, of course. It was shaped just like a human femur. Articular cartilage and everything. He was dying to crack it open and see if it had marrow.

The eyeball sitting on it blinked at him. Wilson would not crack it open. That would most likely kill it, and whatever the thing was it wasn’t dangerous- it couldn’t even move. There was no call for wanton destruction.

He heard a soft sound. Something breathing…

The bone’s owner was curled up a little way away from the fire. It must have been there that whole time and Wilson hadn’t noticed in the dim light. He was so _bad_ at noticing things.

It wasn’t waking up, it hadn’t heard him. Wilson could quickly make a torch and escape! There was a bundle of sticks in his backpack, and plenty of grass.

He slowly pulled the backpack towards him. As he was easing it open another bolt of pain twisted his guts and he whimpered aloud.

The monster shuddered and got to its feet. It stood there and faced him, its sides moving in and out as it breathed. Wilson didn’t move. The creature didn’t move.

The fire popped and Wilson jumped. So did the animal. It turned around in a circle and settled back down, facing Wilson and panting.

Wilson swallowed and picked up the eye bone. “You want this, huh?”

The animal panted.

Wilson tossed the bone. It flopped through the air and landed next to the animal. It perked up and turned towards the bone, then back towards Wilson.

“You don’t seem so dangerous,” Wilson said. “But I’ve been wrong about such things… perhaps I should take my leave.”

His stomach rolled. He bit his lip. Truth be told, he didn’t really feel like walking. Or standing. Or sitting. Or being conscious.

The animal wasn’t really built like a predator. No claws, and the teeth were blunter than Wilson had first realized. And what carnivore had horns? Of course, herbivores could still be aggressive… but surely the animal would attack him only if he seemed threatening. He wasn’t going to do anything threatening.

Wilson lay down on his side, curling up into the fetal position. If he were disemboweled by that creature, so be it. He probably wouldn’t feel the difference anyway.

* * *

He woke when he heard the fire go out.

It was poor fire safety to sleep next to a fire with no one watching it… or he thought it was, anyway, no one had really ever taught him either way… but he couldn’t bear to sleep without one. He’d heard something moving out there in that darkness before.

Someone screaming.

It was dawn now and there was enough light to see by. There was no one out there. It seemed impossible that someone had ever been out there, but he knew what he’d heard. And felt. So many things here were impossible but they happened.

Like that shaggy little animal he’d come across yesterday. It was still there. It had woken up and was panting at him.

Wilson got to his feet and stretched. He felt fine, apart from the general battering he’d taken over the past few weeks. The berries must not be poisonous. He’d just overindulged.

He shouldered the backpack and tested his wounded leg. Stiff, naturally, after a night of inactivity, but usable. No infection or anything of the sort.

That animal was just sitting there.

He cleared his throat. “Well, goodbye, then,” he said, with an awkward smile. Why was he smiling at the thing? Why was he talking to it? This place did things to a person.

He turned his back on the little animal and walked away briskly, or as briskly as he could with a slight limp. A little way away he slowed down and looked back. 

The fluffy little thing was still just sitting there. It seemed so calm.

It seemed to want to stay near that bone, since it hadn’t moved and all. Wilson would make a mental note of that. Perhaps the creature could be coaxed to move by moving the bone. He didn’t know why he’d need to do that, but it was worth remembering.

* * *

“Ha!”

Wilson flipped over the trap. Inside was a squirming rabbit.

It looked distressed.

“Well, imagine how I feel,” Wilson told it. “I’ve eaten three of your kind today and I’m still hungry! What’s wrong with you?”

He’d had rabbit at Cousin Fred’s hunting parties. One or two rabbits had fed Wilson, Fred, whoever Fred’s date was, whoever Wilson’s date had been assigned to be, and often one of Fred’s obnoxious friends. That was a far cry from three rabbits- soon to be four- failing to sustain one smallish man. Of course, those rabbits had been served with potatoes… potatoes with _butter…_ and sometimes a ham…

“I could kill for some bacon,” he said to himself as he dispatched the rabbit.

Quite literally he could… there were the pig men. But they used language! And tools! And they had houses! But people could starve on a diet of lean meat. But eating a bipedal creature with intelligence was near to cannibalism. Besides, they looked like pigs (fat, meaty pigs…) but he didn’t know that they would actually have meat on them that would taste like bacon. Appearances could be deceiving. And it would sort of be murder.

“It’s a dilemma,” he said to the dead rabbit.

It would be nice to get back to camp before dark so he could cook the rabbit in the cook pot but he didn’t really expect to make it all the way there in this heat, and wasn’t surprised when he had to stop and make a cold fire. It was getting close to dusk anyway.

Making a hot fire would probably make him pass out and he couldn’t cook over a cold one. After a moment of debate he flayed the rabbit and started eating it raw. Not very tasty, but at least it was wetter this way, and he didn’t think he was drinking enough water…

Hmm, hold on. His surroundings didn’t look familiar…

Wilson consulted his map, which was just a rough charcoal sketch on a piece of wood. He appeared to have sweated through his clothes onto it, rendering it smeary and useless. Gross. He chucked it in the fire.

He knew enough to know he’d taken a wrong turn. This island was short on landmarks, making it easy to take a wrong turn. But he wasn’t anywhere dangerous! He was just in the deciduous forest, and nothing too terrible lived there apart from the occasional spider. And if there were spiders nearby, he would have heard them by now.

Safe enough to roll out his grass mat and try to get some sleep.

Before lying down he knelt on the mat and listened to his surroundings. He heard no barking, just crickets, an occasional owl, and…

Padding footsteps.

Wilson pulled out his spear and sat waiting. Something appeared in the light of his fire. Something… furry.

“Oh, uh, hello,” Wilson told it. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

It panted at him. Wilson looked around and noted the eye bone nearby, gleaming in the firelight. “I’m not learning to be observant very quickly,” he said to himself.

The shaggy little creature was obviously quite docile. It radiated calm. There seemed to be no reason now to have ever been frightened of the animal, let alone to threaten the poor thing with a spear! Of course he’d had more experience now telling peaceful animals from evil ones, but not _much_ more.

It would seem that the animal really didn’t like to leave the bone. And it seemed incapable or unwilling to pick up the bone in its mouth and move it itself. The ground was trampled all around the area, indicating the animal stayed there, and yet, there was no sign of droppings. Perhaps it buried its scat. Though there was no sign of anything being buried, either- apart from the disturbed earth over the rabbit carcass that Wilson himself had buried.

He dug it up. “D’you want this?” The animal must have drawn near for a reason. It was probably hungry. Maybe it was lost, too… Wilson hadn’t seen any others of its species.

Wilson picked a bit of gristle off the carcass that he himself had been unable to eat. He was learning to consume all sorts of noxious things, but he must be more finicky at heart than Robinson Crusoe or his ilk because he had been unable to eat certain bits of the animal that he knew to be, in theory, edible. Eyeballs, for example. And the one time he’d tried to eat the intestines he’d almost thrown up. If he ever got back to civilization, he would perhaps keep all that to himself.

He approached the animal. It backed away.

Why, it was afraid of him! _It_ was afraid of _him?_ And yet it must be curious about him, because it had come closer. It just didn’t want to be _too_ close.

The strange beast panted up at him. It looked so soft and shaggy. Top-heavy, with those horns and its little stumpy legs. It obviously couldn’t see well, its eyes weren’t even visible.

“Poor little guy,” Wilson said. “Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you.” He showed it his empty hands with fingers splayed, although it was doubtful that the creature would understand the gesture even if it could see- and he wasn’t entirely certain it could.

He dug for a better piece of meat to give it. There really wasn’t much left. He’d consumed everything but the eyes and bowels. He’d even cracked open the larger of the rabbit’s bones and sucked out the marrow.

Bones! This creature liked bones. Wilson picked off a tiny rib and held it out. “Are you hungry?”

The creature seemed hesitant.

“You may have it,” Wilson said. Of course the thing couldn’t understand him, but animals were supposed to react to the tone of one’s voice if one spoke kindly…

Suddenly, the creature opened its mouth. Or rather, its upper jaw flipped upright like it was on a hinge, revealing an enormous gaping maw filled with teeth!

Wilson flinched, but, well, he had been offering to feed it, so he oughtn’t to take this as a sign of aggression or anything of the sort. He flicked the rib into the creature’s mouth and backed away. The jaw flipped back down.

Wilson sat on the straw mat. The creature lay down. It had no real face to speak of but he imagined it looked satisfied.

“Good night,” he said.

* * *

When he awoke the furball was still there. It didn’t leave the eye bone, right. Hmm. Perhaps it _could_ not leave its bone... if it could not, then Wilson had stranded it here. Without accessible food and without others of its kind!

“I didn’t mean to inflict a condition of stranded starvation on anyone. Or any… thing.” Wilson picked up the bone. “Let’s find you a better spot, eh?”

Wilson led the bouncy creature along the path back towards his camp. In a distressingly short time he was rather overcome by heat and had to lie down under a tree. This heavy backpack really wasn’t helping.

The creature stood over him and panted.

“You must be hotter than I am,” he said. “All that fur.”

He reached out and touched the fur, with no other excuse than that he was feeling light-headed. It was coarse and long. Felt like the bear rug in Fred’s house.

The animal reacted to the contact by flipping its mouth open. Wilson sat up and leaned forward. That bone he’d given the creature was still sitting there in its mouth. Or the large, dry, padded cavern that served it for a mouth.

Its tongue was just tacked on in front. There was no root.

“What on Earth?” Wilson muttered. He reached in and patted the bottom of the animal’s mouth. Warm and soft.

The beast seemed not at all distressed to have Wilson’s arm inside it.

Wilson took out the dried rabbit bone and flipped it into the grass. The strange animal closed its ‘mouth’ and panted happily.

Wilson put the eye bone inside the creature’s mouth and took it back out. The creature showed no reaction either way.

“Huh,” said Wilson.

* * *

 

The animal showed no signs of recognizing the prairie, the meadows, the woods, or the outskirts of the marsh, and no inclination to settle down in any of those places.

Wilson found a berry bush that hadn’t yet shriveled up or been harvested and ate a couple of the sad, dry fruits. They were chewy and sour. He’d save the rest and try to make them more palatable with the cook pot.

He flicked one of the berries into the fuzzball’s open mouth. “Maybe you simply don’t like bones,” he mused.

There was no reply, of course.

The heat made frogs sluggish. Wilson easily trapped one by the pond and dispatched it. Tucking the oversized amphibian under his arm, he made his way back to camp.

The strange furry animal bounced along beside him. It was easy to get the impression that it liked him, somewhat, but… no, he was well aware it was only following the bone.

A nice cold fire was in order and a bit to drink. He had stored lots of water during the torrential spring just in case, and ‘just in case’ was now, because all the glaciers had melted and dried up and the ponds were half-full and muddy.

“That's better,” he said, after he’d slaked his thirst and cooled off a bit. He looked back at his new compatriot. The fuzzball had found the place by the fire pit were repeated sitting and sleeping had worn a small hollow in the shape of Wilson’s curled-up body, and was lying in it. It looked like it was smiling, the way a panting dog looked like it was smiling.

“That’s not your habitat,” said Wilson.  “I can’t feed you.”

The animal kept on panting and smiling. It didn’t seem to do much else.

Wilson sighed. 

He checked inside the strange animal’s mouth. It hadn’t swallowed the berry or made any sort of attempt to digest it. After a moment of internal debate Wilson removed the berry and ate it himself.

He placed a few small pebbles, bits of wood and flower petals into the animal’s mouth and observed. He saw no change in behavior. Wilson checked the items after a minute or two. None had been eaten. He removed the items.

“What do you eat?” he asked aloud.

He tricked in a few drops of precious water, waited, and checked.

The water hadn't been swallowed or absorbed.

Wilson did a cursory examination of the creature. He found no pulse and no sign of internal organs. It was just like an empty box on legs. And yet it was breathing. And warm. And furry.

Wilson took a step back from the creature. His food was done. He retrieved it from the cook pot and choked it down. Everything he ate was so unsatisfying lately. Maybe it was the heat. He’d used to somewhat enjoy frog legs once he got past the initial disgust.

“Is that it?” he asked the bizarre anomaly sitting by the fire. “You’re too hot to eat anything, under all of that fur? Yes, that must be it, poor creature…” Why it didn't drink, though, that was still open for debate.

It was a confusing creature, but it certainly wasn’t the strangest thing Wilson had seen in this place. It was clearly friendly, or at least neutral. He sat down beside it. There were more things he could do, more refinements to camp and such, but he was awfully tired. Maybe he’d just sit for a while…

The animal put its stumpy paw on his knee.

“Well, we'd better find somewhere else for you to stay before you decide you want to eat again. I don’t have much to share,” said Wilson. “I’m not even feeding myself very well. I think I need more vegetables, or… something.”

The animal didn’t seem bothered by that at all.

“Too much lean meat, perhaps. I’ve heard that can be a problem,” he mused. “Darwin wrote on it. I’ve probably been here long enough for that to be a problem. I think they call it rabbit starvation.”

Somehow, he doubted the funny creature had heard of rabbit starvation.

“You don’t even understand English.” Wilson sighed and shut his eyes.

* * *

Something cold and wet was on his face! He was going to be eaten alive before he could fight back!

No, false alarm, it was just the furry thing that had been sharing his camp for the past few days. It had been licking his face. Wilson took his hand off of his spear he slept next to.

“This better be important!” he snapped.

He glanced over the camp. Nothing looked out of place. There was no emergency, the stinker had just wanted to wake him up.

Oh, but it was silly and unfair to attribute cruel motives to the little creature. It didn’t know that Wilson happened to feel excruciatingly rotten at the moment.  It hadn’t just decided to harass him and interrupt his sleep, it was a dumb animal. 

“Are you finally hungry?” he asked. He had placed all sorts of substances inside the creature’s inner cavity, including live rabbits- hypothesizing that perhaps the creature fed on live animals like some sort of Venus flytrap- but nothing had been digested. Also, it never excreted anything.

It had never licked his face before...

“I don’t suppose you want to eat _me.”_ That didn’t seem terribly plausible. Wilson had had his arms inside the thing’s mouth so many times, why hadn’t it bitten him? He had even fallen inside the cavity once, and the creature had calmly waited while he frantically extricated himself.

“Well then,” he asked, “what is it?”

How long had he been sleeping, anyway? The sun was high overhead. He must have been unconscious for hours and hours and the cold fire had gone out.

But he didn’t feel hot. And he wasn’t sweating. Yet, it was hot! It had to be. He must have heatstroke. This could be dangerous. Perhaps it was good that the shaggy beast had woken him up. If Wilson didn’t know better, he would wonder if his rust-colored campmate had wanted to revive him, or…

Or…

A sound, a low growl, seemingly coming from nowhere. “What was that?”

He picked up the spear and stood. Another growl. It was so loud that it reverberated through the ground and he felt the vibrations in his legs and even in his chest. “That sounds awfully big.”

His little friend had been warning him, hadn’t it? Or just trampling him in agitation, which had had the same effect. Wilson absent-mindedly patted it and looked around for the source of the noise.

An acrid smell filled the air. Smoke. Wilson’s mouth went dry. To the east was a flickering light. Another fire. Looked like a doozy. Great.

Something was drifting through the flames. A giant… reptilian… thing. It was spitting fire. Well, how interesting! That was certainly something he hadn’t seen before!

The flames were coming closer. Wilson bolted.

It was far too hot to run and he was far too weak. He collapsed after what seemed a very short time, heaving for breath, vision graying over. He would have known he couldn’t flee if he’d thought about it at all but the panic response had been too strong- not that it mattered, there was nothing else he _could_ do.

He had the eye bone in his pocket at all times. The little fuzzball had come with him and now it started to lick his face again.

He tried to get up again and fell back down. It was so hot.

“I can’t,” he said. The spirit was willing, but the flesh was about to be dead. He couldn’t even move- it wasn’t a question of effort, it was like his limbs weren’t connected to his brain. He couldn’t reach them at all.

He felt no discomfort, no pain, just a certain dreaminess… he’d felt like this once before and had woken up with a resuscitator being used on him. No resuscitator here. Well, well, so the end had at last come! Wilson would have expected to curse and rail at his death a bit, if anyone had asked how he might feel about the matter when it came... but now he did not rage in the slightest. No call for that, he had done his best, and he'd survived much longer than anyone could reasonably have expected him to. 

He let out one last breath…

Then a flash of light and a feeling of tremendous pressure and he was somewhere else entirely!

He was sitting on a bunch of shards of rocks, and some wooden floorboards. There was a rush of _something_ in his chest for a moment, a not-unpleasant feeling like an electric burst, and then it faded and he did feel unpleasant.

He blinked at his surroundings. They were very much there. He was very much conscious.

Wilson stood on shaky legs and inspected himself for damage. Nothing. But he had died. But he was still on the island which meant- which meant the island was the afterlife? The island was forever?

No no no, talk about jumping to conclusions! No. It couldn’t be.

He was surrounded by reeking pig heads on sticks. They weren’t decayed to skulls the way they had been the last time he’d seen them, though, which meant, he realized, that the pigs or somebody must replace them every so often.

He supported himself on one of the pig head stakes and breathed rapidly through his mouth. The stench and the strangeness were equally overpowering and after a brief struggle he doubled over and vomited bile.

“Ugh…” He wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve and sweated.

It was a different time of day than it had been when he’d passed out… or passed away… whichever. The sunlight was dimmer than he recalled. 

He would probably feel quite a bit better if he stopped hanging out right in the middle of a cloud of decay-smell. He walked away, forcing himself to move slowly even though he had an irrational urge to bolt. Where would he run to? What would he be running _from?_

Where was he walking to, for that matter? Back to camp, he supposed.

After a bit of confused walking it occurred to him that he really should have keeled over from the heat by now…

It was cooler than it had been in months. Or was this heatstroke again? No, there was a nice breeze, and little spots of cold were hitting his arms and face. It was raining.

Wilson tipped his head back and put his tongue out. To think that back in spring he had only wanted it to _stop_ raining! He had known so little about the true harshness of the elements then.

Soon his hair was a heavy wet mop on his head, which was unpleasant but preferable to feeling as if he’d been shut up in an oven. He ought to hurry back to camp and pull out the rain-catcher.

His footsteps slowed. Ah, yes. There was a monster back at camp.

Wilson approached cautiously. There was no sign of the giant thing he’d seen in the flames, it seemed to be gone. Or it had been imaginary. Whichever.

His camp was also gone. Burned to ashes.

Wilson sat down in the middle of the gray powder, staring at nothing. He ought to be dead, something had gone wrong, that was all, so maybe he ought to rectify the matter. Slit his wrists. Not really, of course, just a little a joke, a little joke inside his head because no one was here to hear a little joke, so he would also have to be the one to laugh at it.

“Ha!”

And something laughed with him, though not out loud.

Wilson jumped to his feet. “You!” His hands balled into fists. He forgot sometimes that all of this misery was manufactured, but that laugh had really brought it home. “You arrogant, scheming, con artist! You think this is what will break me? You- you- you’re not going to manage it!”

Wilson began to quickly gather the few items that were still useful, loading them up into his pockets and the backpack that had somehow survived. He was breathing hard through his clenched teeth the whole time. Maxwell thought this was _funny._ Oh, yes, how hilarious.

“See how funny it is when I- when I-“ At the moment, there was no way to finish that. There wasn’t a clear way to get back at Maxwell yet. But he’d find one.

Would he ever.

“Don’t count me out just yet, _pal,”_ he spat.

The destruction wasn’t as bad as it had first appeared. The fire pit was still intact. So was the science machine under its layer of ash, and the cook pot, which was the most important thing, really. He could stay here and rebuild on the rubble.

And he had been carrying quite a few useful items when he had… well, _before._ He should go and see what had happened with that. Those things had been left quite a way from the scene of the fire and ought to be intact.

Wilson took a deep breath, inhaled a lot of ash by accident, coughed for a while, and headed off to sort out the matter of his corpse.

The first thing he saw while approaching the area was the funny, furry animal that had been tagging around with him for the last few days. The bone must have been dropped on the ground around here. “Ah,” said Wilson, “I don’t really have time for-“

The thing jumped on him and knocked him flat on his butt. He yelped.

The creature wriggled in his arms, licking his face. It pawed at his chest and panted and squirmed as if it would be frantically wagging its tail, if it had one.

Wilson wrapped his arms around the furry body and let it slobber on him for a while. The creature huffed hot breath onto him. 

It was crazy to think that this bizarre animal with its lack of internal structures and its dubious biology, on this evil island, could _like_ him, could be greeting him with the wild affection of a dog for its master. There must be some other reason for what it was doing, Maxwell would not provide Wilson with a friend.

But it felt good to think he was liked by something.

It felt really good.

He buried his face into the thick fur. The critter quit squirming, became soft and calm and snuggled into Wilson’s chest. Wilson combed its long hair with his fingers.

Sometime later he gently set the little guy down on the ground and got up to check around for his own dead body.

There was no body, though.

Just a skeleton.

And it was most definitely Wilson’s skeleton. It was the right height, age, and sex, and it was missing the correct number of ribs on the left side.

He was torn between the desire to examine the bones and a growing nausea that compelled him to look away. Well, he was a _scientist,_ and it was just a skeleton! He crouched down and poked at it for a little bit.

It certainly looked like it ought to be Wilson’s skeleton, but someone with Maxwell’s power could have faked it. And Wilson’s skeleton was inside Wilson! Wasn’t it? Yes, it was, it wasn’t as if he had turned to boneless jelly. “Not buying it,” he muttered aloud. He set about gathering his things.

The loaded-down backpack was almost too much to carry, but he only had a short walk to camp. He set off, eye bone in pocket so the fuzzy critter would follow him. The little guy really needed a name. Wilson couldn’t just keep calling it ‘hey, you’ if he was planning to be near it any length of time. Of course he couldn’t just keep it forever, it was a bizarre wild animal, and when he eventually found its habitat it would be goodbye. But until then-

The animal was pawing his leg. Wilson stopped.

“Yes, what?” he asked the animal. Wait, why was he doing what it wanted? It couldn’t speak, and he needed to get this stuff back to camp. The backpack straps were about to cut off his arms at the shoulders from the weight and the load itself had shifted most painfully onto the sunken side of his back- a position it kept rolling back to no matter how many times he pushed it over onto the right side.

The animal flipped its mouth open.

“I still don’t know what you eat,” Wilson said, and he kept walking.

The animal appeared in front of his legs, blocking his progress. It opened its mouth.

“I cannot feed you! I have _failed_ to find out what you eat!”

The creature panted anxiously and pawed at his shins.

“No!” Wilson snapped. It wasn’t hot enough to kill anymore but it was too hot to carry a load that was much too heavy. He wondered if it was even safe to be carting this around. Dr. Graham had assured him that he would be able to work and carry things and such but the specific question of being stranded in the wilderness and forced to wear an extremely heavy backpack sitting right on the old surgery site- that hadn’t come up. It was beginning to hurt quite a lot. Maybe he should make two trips…

The creature hopped up on its back legs and pawed at his backpack straps. Then it got back down on all fours and opened its maw again.

“What, this?” Wilson took off the backpack and dropped it into the creature’s mouth. As soon as he did so he regretted it. What a petty and spiteful thing to do, the poor animal, what if he’d killed it?

He hadn’t killed it. The creature closed its mouth, hopped around energetically as if it wasn’t carrying anything at all, panted, and bounced off in the direction of camp. It could only get a few feet away from the bone, at which point it stopped and turned towards Wilson.

Wilson cleared his throat. “Thank you?”

The critter looked like it was smiling.

Back at camp, it turned to him and opened its mouth. The backpack was unharmed.

Wilson pulled out the backpack and dropped it on the ground. He sized up his new friend. “Otto von Chesterfield, Esq.,” he decided. “Chester, for short.”

He sat down and stroked the long fur. Chester smiled.

* * *

“Come along, Chester!”

Chester could not do otherwise, if he were holding the bone, so the command was hardly necessary. It was nice to have someone to talk to, was all.

The marsh wasn’t so bad as he’d originally feared, not if he stayed on the path and got out before dusk. And he’d gathered so many reeds, which he could use to make a rough approximation of paper, so he could take real notes! He didn’t know how or why he knew reeds could be made into paper, exactly; paper-making had never been a subject of his in school or anything he was interested in studying independently, not by a long shot. But he wanted the paper so he’d just go with it.

And Chester was happy to carry the reeds. “Aren’t you, boy?”

Wilson patted him between the horns. Chester’s tongue lolled. Chester did not judge one for speaking an incomplete thought aloud. Or not wanting to speak at all, for that matter, or making a joke that didn’t land, or looking gloomy at an inappropriate time. To think that Wilson had ever thought him hostile, or unintelligent. Chester was such a dear little creature.

“That’s enough for today, I think. It’s too close to dusk for me to care to wander all around looking for more…” He looked up and saw a whole lot of reeds all in one place. “Although I think I could take a second out to get those!”

If Wilson had stopped to think he would most likely have been intellectually capable of realizing that neatly arranged reeds in a convenient rectangular field were a bit suspect. But lately the weather had turned beautiful, and then he had discovered the soft, furry animals that could be tracked, that traveled alone and were dispatched were relative ease and were full of red meat and fat, and he had been eating better and sleeping better and generally feeling better and that could make a person cocky.

Anyway he went right to the reeds and was even surprised when a tentacle reared up to attack him- followed by two more on each side. Panic took over and directed him to scramble away. He slipped in the mud, fell, got up and ran back to the path, where he found himself covered in filth, bleeding badly from the shoulder, and quite alone.

“Chester?”

He looked back. Chester had followed Wilson to the reeds as of course he had he was loyal and Wilson had the eye bone and the obedient little thing had gotten pinned between two tentacles which were taking turns destroying him.

Wilson ran back over, seized the furry body and began to pull it backwards until one of the monsters clocked him in the face so hard that he lost his grip and fell on his back.

He sat up and saw it was too late because loyal Chester’s body had been literally ripped to pieces, legs splayed in every direction, the reeds he had been storing spilling out as if he’d been disemboweled- “No, no, no,” he babbled. “No, Chester-“

Another tentacle snapped towards him and in cowardice he bolted. Not that there was anything more he could do.

Once back on the path he turned and looked back. Poor thing. Poor, poor thing.

Wait!

Wilson hastened to the nearest bizarre black stone. There was one in the marsh, not far away.

Chester was not there. Whatever terrifying force allowed those stones to save a man from death did not work on a dog, or a sort of dog-like thing.

Wilson was still holding the eye bone but the eye had closed in death. He studied it. Chester had put in loyal service, he deserved a proper funeral. Just a quick one. It was getting dark, but he had time for a swift funeral. 

Wilson selected a nice spot in a meadow, shady and cool under a tree, and buried the eye bone. He stuck a piece of wood in the dirt as a grave marker and knelt beside the patch of fresh earth. Maybe it was… a _bit_ silly, but people buried their canine companions, didn’t they? And Chester had been as good as any dog, hadn’t he?

“Here lies Otto von Chesterfield, Esquire,” he said aloud. “Loyal companion, bizarre biological anomaly, and… er…”

There was a lump in his throat. _Stiff upper lip, boy,_ he told himself. “Anyway, Chester was a good boy, and… taken from us too soon by…” Taken from the world too soon by Wilson’s carelessness and bad pet ownership.

Wilson cleared his throat. “Anway, he was, uh... a helpful kind of guy, and…” Chester wouldn’t be there anymore. Chester would never be there anymore, that was how death worked, Wilson would be completely alone again. And it was all because Wilson had repaid Chester’s loyalty and friendship by just letting him run into a biological minefield-

Oh, why shouldn’t he cry? There was no one around to witness the pitiful sight of a grown man weeping over the death of some kind of furry living box, and swallowing his emotions was giving him a stomachache. Besides, Chester deserved a bit of grief.

Wilson had not taken into account that his cheek had been flayed open and that tears were salty. “Ow…”

He sat on his heels and whimpered into the crook of his arm like a boy. After a moment or so of this he grew silent and still, a vole under the shadow of a hawk. He was being watched. Maxwell was here to see his most emotionally vulnerable moments, of course, and Maxwell quite enjoyed it. Wilson didn’t consider Maxwell human and was generally able to ignore him, but-

Maxwell spoke. _(Isn’t this sad. I haven’t seen anything so tragic since the bandits died at the end of The Great Train Robbery.)_

Wilson turned, teeth clenched. He glared up into the sky but- Maxwell probably wasn’t up there, come to think of it. Wilson glared at the ground. Maybe Maxwell wasn’t there either. Darn it, where should he glare?

He turned away with a _hmph._ “Kindly keep your comments to yourself, pal.” In his head, it had been a haughty and dismissive statement, but when he said it aloud it sounded thin and trembling.

_(So you can hear me, can you?)_

“Of course I can hear you.” And now his hatred leached into his tone, making it venomous. “I just don’t often find you worthy of reply.”

_(Consider me duly chastised.)_

Jaw clenched, Wilson got to his feet and dusted himself off.

This explained everything. Maxwell had provided him with a genuinely good friend so that Maxwell could destroy him emotionally by killing that friend- or more accurately, giving Wilson the opportunity to get him killed. Wilson would not cry for that demon’s twisted satisfaction!

His resolved lasted until that night, when there was no warm furry body to lie next to and he went into near-hysterics, curled into a ball and clutching his sides in convulsive sobbing. This was a bit of an overreaction, he hadn’t cried like this since Mother had been taken away to the asylum, and then the alienists in attendance had said that if he could not calm down he would be considered for admittance himself. So this behavior was not sane, and he should stop.

Of course he _should_ stop, but that didn’t mean he _could_ stop. There was no shot of whiskey or dose of Veronal to calm him down here, for one thing. And once he started thinking about never seeing Chester again he thought about all sorts of things- like being cut off from human society forever, and never making that great discovery that would benefit humanity, and never seeing his family no not even the crotchety old uncles he hadn’t liked, and how he’d never _appreciated_ people being around when he had them.

And then he thought about Mother sitting in the asylum wondering why he never visited and thinking he had just deserted her because he didn’t like hospitals, and Fred waiting and waiting to see if Wilson would turn up only for him never to turn up and possibly even funding a fruitless search for him, and even little childish things like never having an Oreo cookie again. In the end he only stopped having hysterics when he passed out from exhaustion after midnight, and he woke up distinctly out of sorts.

Maxwell dared to speak to him again while he was eating a tasteless breakfast of slimy carrots by the fire.

_(Say, pal, looks like you’re not doing so great.)_

Wilson flicked an obscene gesture at his deserted surroundings, which only made him more irritable, because now Maxwell had reduced him to the level of someone who made obscene gestures at nothing. Well, maybe Maxwell could make him into a ranting savage, but Maxwell couldn’t do what he really wanted. He couldn’t kill Wilson. And he couldn’t break his spirit, no matter how many hysterics happened.

So there.

* * *

“Hey!”

Wilson jumped and nearly dropped the jerky he was holding.

The woman, Willow, had appeared on the other side of the fire pit, her excited breaths making little clouds in the air and her eyes bright. A real human standing there, a human with a soft human face, and lively human eyes, and gesturing five-fingered hands.

“I found something weird. Come look!” she said.

He shook himself out of his reverie. She couldn’t like to be gawked at every single time she came upon him unawares. “Yes?” he said, setting down his food and standing up.

“This way, this way.”

She led him through crunching snow that always did overspill into his shoes no matter how he tried to cover them up with rabbit skins. He watched her bouncing pigtails. Human hair, carefully parted and tied up with ribbons and dexterous fingers. She had tucked a little piece of flint into the brim of her makeshift hat for an emergency tool. Tool use. Very human.

Right, he shouldn’t stare. It was rude and weird. It was just nice to have another person around. He wasn’t used to it.

Willow had stopped walking. They’d come to a meadow, where an orange-brown shape was standing.

Wilson rubbed his eyes and blinked. The shape stayed where it was.

The other human turned to him. “What is _that_ thing, Mr. Scientist? It’s just like, a hopping he-“

“Chester?”

Chester turned at the sound of his name. But it couldn’t be Chester. But it was Chester. He’d resurrected somehow, like them, and he’d gone to the bone, which was buried. But Wilson had visited the bone and Chester hadn’t been there. Perhaps the process had taken longer with him than with people. Anyway, Wilson ran to him, slipped in the snow, fell, got up, kept running and flung himself onto Chester’s furry body.

Chester slobbered lovingly on Wilson’s exposed cheeks and nose. He’d forgiven Wilson entirely for leading him to his death earlier and then leaving him stranded here. What a kind, upstanding gentleman of a monster.

“Chester, Chester, my dove!” Wilson had had a grandmother who called him ‘my dove’ when he was very small. It had sounded a great deal less awkward when she said it. He would not say that again. “Aww, you’re such a good boy, yes you are!”

He kissed the little creature between its horns, getting a mouthful of long, cold, wet, not-so-clean fur.

Crunching footsteps. Willow was standing near him. Why, he must look utterly ridiculous! She had already caught him rocking back and forth, talking to himself, displaying odd or inappropriate emotions, he would probably alienate her eventually.

He looked up at her. She looked surprised. And then, faintly amused. “Is he your friend?”

“Yes,” Wilson said.

“What does he eat?”

“Nothing. He doesn’t eat anything at all! And he carries items for people. He’s really useful,” he said, realizing that he was basically asking ‘Can I keep him?’ to someone he barely knew who seemed to be a couple years younger than himself. Well, he was living at her camp at the moment, so it was only polite. “He follows this strange bone thing. Here, help me dig it up.” Without waiting for her help he began to scrabble at the dirt with his bare hands. The ground was hard but he hadn’t buried it very deep, so he was soon holding it and carefully cleaning off the dirt.

Willow leaned over his shoulder. “What in the world. I think it’s staring at me.”

Well yes the eye-bone could be unsettling. “I’ll keep it with me, you won’t have to see it.”

“Did you bury it?”

“Yes.”

“Because it’s creepy?”

“No, um, I thought he was- dead.” His voice choked up a little. He cleared his throat and patted Chester.

Willow looked him over. “Yeah, that can happen here I guess! Your fuzzy friend looks kinda cold, maybe we should take him back to camp and warm him up with a nice fire.”

The lady always seemed to want to make a nice fire. Well, it was quite cold! “That sounds lovely!”

He picked up the eye bone and turned to Chester. “C’mon, boy. Let’s go home.”

Chester smiled.


	33. Careless Talk; or, Wes Is Silent For Good Reasons Which He Will Keep To Himself (Because He Is Silent)

When he first came to the island, Wes made the mistake of talking.

It was one night when he was sitting by the fire. “I know you are watching, my friend,” he said- dusting off his slightly rusty English, because Maxwell had first addressed him in English. “I do not fear you. You are sad, I think.” Any performer worth his salt could read an audience. “You have suffered.”

There had been, at first, no reply but the crackling fire.

“You could tell me your sadness,” Wes had said. “I will listen. I listen well.”

He had waited politely for Maxwell to answer, and after hearing only silence, he had tried one last time: “I think maybe you feel guilt. I will listen. It’s good to share our troubles.”

No reply at the time, but a few days later he’d been clapped into an invisible box. Yes, a real one.

Hilarious!

Time had no meaning in that box. Perhaps time had no meaning on the island, period. He could have been in there a hundred years or a single day. He just knew it was far too long.

His rescuer had been a blonde slip of a girl, accompanied by some sort of floating, glowing shape. The shape looked as if it had no mass, but it must have- it had made short work of the clockwork monsters. Wes had dropped free, and the little girl had stood over him and said:

“You have your freedom. Now die.”

Wes had been conscious just long enough to be confused.

And then Wes stirred and opened his eyes. He was back in the forest. A man stood over him.

This was not Maxwell. Wes almost spoke again, but he had no desire to go back in the box, so he refrained.

The new man was wearing a suit much like Maxwell’s, but black. In features they were not very similar. The new man had a face at once sharper and less angular, and hair that would not have looked out of place in the circus. He was also markedly shorter than Maxwell.

“Who has summoned me?” he cried. “No, really- who? I didn’t bring anyone here!”

He looked down. “What in the world?” he fumed. He nudged Wes with his shoe. “I didn’t ask for this.”

Wes held his tongue. He did not want to go back in the box, and the new management seemed to have a poor temperament.

“I’m busy!” the man declared. “I shall remake the world! I care not for this… uh... what is this, a joke? Hey, can’t you talk? What’s the matter with you?”

His English was rapid and hard to understand- ‘Whatsamattawithyou’ in particular took Wes a moment to decipher.

Wes did what he always had when confronted with oddness- he fell back on pantomime. He stood up and did a bit from his old act.

“Are you a mime? Are you really a _mime?”_ The stranger threw up his hands with a huff. “You’re on your own. I can’t be taken from my work! And I _hate_! Mimes!” He vanished.

Not a very good audience.

Wes brushed himself off and began to gather things. Grass, sticks. The new puppet-master had not had the courtesy to give him any sort of warning, but he knew he needed to find something to make a fire before he even thought about food. Otherwise, night would come with claws.

That evening he ran into Maxwell.

The man was sitting at a campfire. He jumped to his feet at the sight of Wes’s approaching torchlight.

They stared at each other for a moment.

“How did you get out?” Maxwell asked.

Wes did not know whether or not Maxwell still had the power to put him back in the box. He backed away.

“Who would let you out?” Maxwell mused. “Wilson didn’t let you out. He’s next to useless.”

Wes had conflicting urges. He wanted to let Maxwell have it. He also wanted to turn and run. Even though he knew enough about body language to tell that Maxwell was not a threat at the moment.

“Well, you can’t stay by my fire,” said Maxwell, languidly. “Can’t stand you. Clear off.”

Discretion was the better part of valor.

The next day he encountered another stranger.

This was the third stranger Wes had encountered in perhaps as many days. He had been under the impression before that he was the only one on the island. Things had certainly changed while he was in the box.

While he was deciding whether to approach, the stranger called out: “Hello!”

It was a sound of cautious joy. Wes waved back, despite himself. He had not heard happiness in a long time.

“Get over here, you-“ (Here he said a word Wes did not recognize.) “Where’ve you been, eh?”

Wes approached. The man was tall, sturdy, and in possession of an impressive beard. And an impressive axe.

“What’s someone new doing here?” he said aloud, losing some of his enthusiasm as Wes drew near. It seemed that he had been mistaken for someone else at first.

Wes had been imprisoned in a box when he’d spoken aloud and ignored when he shut up and did his act. Plus, the stranger had an axe. He’d hold his tongue for the time being.

The stranger looked quite surprised, seeing Wes more clearly. Wes copied him.

“Why?” the man said.

Wes tilted his head. Truth be told, he didn’t know what to say here even if he wanted to speak. Why _what?_

“Yes he is,” the man said, presumably in response to nothing at all. “I- I don’t like this at all.”

Wes drooped.

He held up his hands. “I’m sorry! Sorry!”

Wes smiled to show all was forgiven.

He shouldn’t rush to negative thoughts. Anyone would begin to talk to himself after being out in this forsaken wilderness too long. Well, maybe anyone but Wes.

The stranger scratched his head and looked Wes up and down. “Er… name’s Woodie, eh?”

Wes nodded.

“Nice to meet you, eh? I guess I should… show you back to camp?”

There was a camp? He only hoped Woodie was somewhat sane and there really was a camp.

On the way to the camp, Wes made a present for Woodie, who seemed ill at ease. He fashioned a red axe out of balloons, out of homage to Woodie’s red axe, and offered it up.

“That’s really lovely!” Woodie beamed. “It looks like Lucy.”

Okay… the axe had a name. Why not?

Some way down the path, they encountered an elderly woman.

“Hullo, Miss Wickerbottom,” Woodie called.

She turned. She wore square-framed glasses and a tight bun. Her mouth and chin were most severe, but when she spoke her voice was mild. And remarkably clear and well-enunciated, so that he could understand her perfectly even though she had a mild accent that he couldn’t place. “Oh! My! Whoever is that, dear?”

“I, er, was hoping you’d tell me, eh?” Woodie asked, rubbing the back of his neck. “He doesn’t seem to want to talk.”

“I suppose I could make a guess.” The woman looked Wes up and down. “He is a performance artist.”

"And where'd he come from, eh?" Woodie's hands were trembling.

The woman adjusted her glasses, her mouth screwing up at one end. "Perhaps he will tell us."

There was Wes’s chance to reconsider the choice of silence, if he chose to. He looked from Woodie to the elderly lady.

 _Non, non, je ne vais pas parler, je ne vais jamais parler,_ he thought, and realized for the first time that he was afraid. But of course. Who would not be, under these circumstances?

“I believe he is a silent performer,” the woman concluded.

Wes could smell food. He forcefully realized that he had not eaten in- oh, far too long. His feet began to carry him away.

There really was a camp! Tents, walls in a neat little circle _._ Wes could not believe his eyes. No, really- he might have gone insane in that box, he might be conjuring pleasant hallucinations. It was best to use caution.

He entered the walled circle and saw a group of two strangers, sitting by a rough, furry shape.

Wes tensed. From the attitudes of the people it was plain that the creature wasn’t a threat, but it looked just like a spider.

The furry thing raised its head. Its eyes were calm and clear, and very human in expression, if not in shape or number. “Oh! Hello!” it said, in a pleasant English voice, the voice of a child. “Who are you?”

The other two leapt to their feet. Both of them were quite muscular. In his haste to show that he was no threat- and in his considerable hunger- Wes swooned.

The smaller of the two athletes caught him. She was quite fierce in aspect, obviously strong, and strikingly attractive. A blazing redhead with fireworks of freckles strewn over a stern face. Her voice was loud, oddly accented, and completely incomprehensible to Wes. Her costume was incongruously ancient Norse.

Wes pointed to the food- it was nearby, a huge, thick slab of meat roasting over an open fire- and gestured wildly to show he was perishing fast.

The fierce lady set him down by the fire with more incomprehensible speech. Wes shook his head and rolled his eyes in apology.

The other athlete- this one massive, Slavic, and just as incomprehensible- said something else loud. He was clad in a thin red-and-white leotard. Perhaps this was a group of fellow performance artists? That would explain their appearance. Perhaps the man and his axe had been ventriloquists- perhaps this island was a purgatory for artists. Then at least he’d have good company. No fellow mimes yet, unfortunately.

A huge chunk of meat plopped into Wes’s lap. The fierce woman nodded to him. Effusively demonstrating his gratitude with hands and eyes, he began to eat.

When he looked up from the food, that elderly woman from before was standing nearby, watching him. “Hello again, dear. You don’t seem to wish to speak. Perhaps you would be willing to write?”

It would behoove him to agree to communicate in some fashion. Wes nodded agreement and a rough facsimile of a feather pen and some sort of substance resembling paper were suddenly in his lap.

He explained that his name was Wes and he was a mime. More than that, he did not find necessary to explain.

“Hm,” said the old woman. “My name is Miss Wickerbottom. I am a librarian. You are welcome to join our group, Wes, as long as you are polite and do not become antisocial.”

Wes wouldn’t dream of it.

He spent the rest of the day in the company of the incomprehensible athletes. In the evening, he had some time to himself and used it to explore.

He stumbled into a smaller camp next to the main one. This place was clearly set up for at least two people- two tents, two chests, several odd machines. There was only one occupant at the moment, a tan-skinned young woman. Her eyes were large and luminous, her lips round and full, her nose delicate. Sadly, her expression was dour and her figure was that of a baseball bat; but she would have been very attractive to those with tastes for a certain wholesome-looking sort of female. Wes’ tastes did not run that way, but he could appreciate beauty when he saw it.

She saw Wes and jumped. “Where’d you come from? How’d you get here?”

Wes shrugged.

“What are you, a clown?”

Wes held up his gloved hands.

“Oh. You’re a mime,” she said. “Uh. No offense, but no thanks.” How was that not offensive? “You haven’t seen a little guy my height with fluffy hair, have you?”

As a matter of fact Wes had…

“Oh. Yeah. Mimes don’t talk.” She looked away, sighing through her nose. She made no move to introduce herself.

Wes would stay out of it.

Did they know Maxwell was roaming around in the woods at the moment?

Wes would stay out of that too.

\---

 It became clear very soon that the camp was in a bit of disarray. The woman in the halved camp was named Willow. Her fluffy-headed friend was named Wilson and he was missing. There was a little girl who should be here and wasn’t. Her name was Wendy and she was also missing. The harsh island had taken its toll on these poor people.

Oh, and there was a robot, or something, named WX-78, and it had not been seen recently either, but that was apparently just because it was standoffish.

When Wes had more practice understanding her accent, he learned that the fierce woman was named Wigfrid. She was an actress playing a warrior. In this place she had also become a warrior for real.

Her athletic companion was named Wolfgang. He was a circus strongman. Both were true artisans, dedicated to honing their respective crafts even in the wilderness. Wes hoped that he was not giving himself too many airs if he considered them to be kindred spirits.

Wigfrid and Wolfgang were decidedly not in a relationship, nor was she attached to anyone else on the island.     

Wigfrid was the dedicated provider of foodstuffs. She had kept her head and continued her normal work while Willow searched the island and tidied the half of her camp that was not being used, and Wickerbottom made systematic search maps, and Woodie progressively deforested the island.

Wilson had been missing for weeks. In private, Wigfrid confided that she did not think there was a point in searching for him any longer.

Soon after his arrival Wolfgang and Wigfrid put Wes through a short obstacle course to determine his physical capabilities. Sadly, Wes had always been rather frail, and the disappointment on the faces of his new friends after (and during) his test was obvious. But he could still gather berries, he could carry water and he could boost morale. And sometimes he noticed things that, in their strength and speed, his companions overlooked.

One day gathering berries he discovered something curled up beneath a bush. It was early morning, and in the dim light the shape in the grass was unidentifiable.

It would have been best, perhaps, most cautious, certainly, to alert Wigfrid before approaching. But he was curious. He went closer.

The shape became identifiably human as he came closer. A man, colorless of skin and dark of hair, curled tightly into himself. Wes had always been good with faces and would have recognized this man as the one who had irritably ‘welcomed’ him back to the island even if the process of elimination had not made it obvious that this was Wilson.

And was Wilson… alive?

He didn’t look it. Dew had collected on his skin.

Wes leaned forward to check for breath and the man started into motion.

Wes backed up. Wilson sat up, blinking and gasping for breath. His eyes locked onto Wes. They were a murky dark red like drying blood. “You! The mime!” His voice was weak.

Wes backed away ever so slightly.

Wilson tried to get to his feet and failed. He held out one hand. “Up.”

Wes cocked his head quizzically.

“Help me up,” said Wilson. He looked as if he wanted to be imperious, but he sounded tired and petulant.

Wes did not do so. Wilson’s hand did not look quite… sanitary. What with the torn fingernails and stains of a red too dark to be berry juice.

Wilson made an impatient growling noise and hauled himself upright with the help of the berry bush. “Fool.”

Wes was having a hard time believing that this horrible little man was the same person Willow had been pining after.

“You’re going to help me get back to work, mime,” he said.

Wes shook his head.

“No?! Whaddaya mean, no?” He hung on the berry bush and scowled. He had not eaten the berries, Wes noticed. 

After a moment of internal debate, Wes stepped forward and began to harvest the berries.

“You’re kidding,” Wilson said, watching him gloomily.

Wes turned and waved politely.

“Don’t you know who I am?” Wilson asked. “I was the ruler of the island for… for… quite some time!”

Wes continued to harvest the berries.

Wilson was trembling. “Don’t you understand how serious this is?” he demanded. “I am on a quest. I’ve been dethroned! And the person who took my place is empirically unqualified! She’s not a scientist, she hasn’t even started high school yet!”

Wendy? Maybe. The man had lost it, obviously.

“Maxwell won’t help me either. Do you want to be _like Maxwell?_ Hmm?”

Wes glanced over at him. Wilson had a look of dazed agitation in his eyes. “Fine,” he said, and stormed off.

Wes finished gathering the berries and trotted off to follow Wilson. It wasn’t difficult to keep up with him.

“I see you’ve decided to occupy your rightful spot on the food chain after all, mime,” Wilson said briskly. There were bright pink spots on his cheeks, standing out against his corpsey skin. He very nearly had the complexion Wes achieved through makeup, but all-natural. Wes was a touch envious. Only a touch. Wes liked to preserve the option to someday pass as a ‘normal’ person again.

Wilson had short little legs and took two steps for each of Wes’ strides. He looked like a busily scurrying rodent. “I’ve got to find a new way to the lower realm,” he said. “Wendy’s closed off the portal, the scamp. Someone needs to give her such a talking-to.” The little gremlin touched his throat and grimaced. He was beginning to sound hoarse.

There was a circle of bloody blisters around each of Wilson’s wrists- and another halfway up the forearm. They had not been immediately noticeable under the man’s excessive arm hair.

Wilson caught his eye. “What? What are you looking at? Ha! This?” He shook his fist. “This is the price of power!” His voice rose in volume and became quite raw and painful at the same time.

Wes pointed at his own throat and looked quizzical.

“Oh, I… don’t actually know what’s wrong. My throat keeps getting tight. I don’t suppose you’ve bewitched me!”

No…

Wilson studied the blisters on his arms and his raw and bloodied fingertips. “It’s not very regal, though, is it? Ah! That reminds me.” He paused in his tracks and suddenly changed course. “Pit stop,” he said.

He led Wes to an empty camp, clearly made for one person.

“Damn your eyes, Maxwell,” Wilson said, walking into the camp.

So Maxwell had been here. How had he evaded discovery by the others on the island, with all of them out searching for Wilson and Wendy?

It was Maxwell’s island, after a fashion… he must have his ways.

Before Wes could puzzle it out the camp was on fire.

Wes’ new evil friend stepped away from the flames, dusting off his hands. “Sadly, he’s not here to burn to death.”

Wes must have looked surprised, because Wilson added with venom: “Oh, he’d be fine a few seconds later. Don’t look so appalled. I just want him to hurt.” He coughed weakly and staggered back onto his original course. “So where are the, uh, others?” He wiped his hands on his pants. “I wouldn’t want anyone to get any bright ideas about stopping me, or anything like that!” A slightly pained look crossed his face, which he shook off with an irritable snort.      

Come to think of it, Wes should probably stop watching the show and start nudging this wayward sheep back to the flock. Wigfrid would certainly know what to do with him. And Wigfrid would be able to clarify whether Wilson had gone through some kind of change or whether everyone back at camp who had spoken of him fondly was secretly a psychopath.

He tugged Wilson’s sleeve and made motions to the left, in the opposite direction of where he knew Wigfrid was hunting beefalo. He made a warning expression.

“Hmm? Over there is someone? Then I shall go this way,” said Wilson, turning away from Wes’ point and towards the plains. Exactly as intended.

As they followed a path Wes had covered many times, a subtle change occurred. The air took on a clammy chill. The sunlight became paler, cooler.

Wilson froze in his tracks. “Wendy?”

A sound wisped through the air, something like a sigh of lament.

Wilson turned all about. His head moved in jerks like a crow’s. “Wendy? Wendy, I’m coming! I’ll be there soon!” He jerked as if in pain and pulled something out of his pocket. It was a flower. Pink, with a red center.

Wes looked down, having caught something out of the corner of his eye. All of the flowers nearby were glowing.

Wilson pressed the flower to his heart and sank to his knees. His entire aspect had suddenly changed, a playground bully melting into a frightened, guilty child. “Wendy, Wendy, what have I done?”

A crow flew overhead.

Wes looked back at his traveling companion and saw that Wilson’s shoulders were shaking.

“She’s only thirteen,” he said.

\---

Wigfrid stood astride a fallen beefalo. As they approached she wrenched her spear out of its back and held it up to the sky with a cry.

Wes led Wilson- who had become very docile- close to her and stopped where she could see them. She looked down. “Greetings, silent o-“

Her bright eyes found Wilson. She was, very briefly, speechless; the next moment a flying leap took her off of her kill and into the limp, unresponsive arms of her lost-and-found companion.

“Aah! Where _were_ you? We all thought you were dead!” In her joy, she very nearly lost her Viking accent. She pulled away and punched the man squarely in the shoulder. “That is for causing worry and strain! I am sure your beloved Willow will give you much worse! She has been preparing food for you every night in case you should return!”

Wilson stared back at her in glazed-over shock.

Wigfrid turned and called across the field: “WOLFGANG!”

Wolfgang materialized with a mighty bound. “Yes, mighty girl!” He saw Wilson. “TINY MAN!”

He scooped Wilson up into the air, and compared to Wolfgang he did look tiny, like a doll. Wolfgang wrapped him into an enormous hug.

Wes made gestures of protest, as at this time Wilson did not seem like someone who ought to be treated roughly, but Wolfgang was too excited to notice.

Wolfgang placed Wilson up on his shoulders. “We must take tiny man home!” He bounded away with Wigfrid at his side and Wes struggling to keep up.

The first person they came across was Woodie. He was harvesting logs by the side of the path.

“Hail!” Wigfrid called. The lumberjack turned.

“Tiny man is back!” Wolfgang set Wilson down rather heavily on the ground, where he huddled and blinked.

Woodie clapped him on the shoulders, nearly knocking him over. Woodie was a full head taller than Wilson- he was even a bit taller than Wes. “Where ya been, eh?” He frowned. “Something happen to your hands, bud?”

Wilson shook himself and dug the flower from earlier out of his waistcoat. He showed it to Woodie.

Woodie paled. “What happened to Wendy?”

Wilson bit his lip and gestured at his throat, shaking his head.

“Scary girl has dropped her flower?” Wolfgang asked, looking disturbed. He reached for the flower but Wilson carefully tucked it back into his inside pocket.

“We must consult Wickerbottom!” Wigfrid decided, and they moved on to the main camp.

Wickerbottom was the only one there at present. She was knitting.

“Oh my,” she said. “Why is everyone-“

Wolfgang set Wilson down in front of her and he and Wigfrid began to both talk at once.

“Mr. Higgsbury! It is so good to see you alive, dear!” Wickerbottom began to gently examine him while Wolfgang and Wigfrid shouted themselves into excited incoherence.

Wickerbottom looked up at them. “This man is injured.” At the sound of her clear, calm voice they quieted at once. “Please give him some space.”

“What is wrong with frail tiny man?” Wolfgang asked.

Wickerbottom just plain didn’t answer that question. Instead: “It was the right thing to bring him to me. You’ve done quite well.”

“I must hunt, anyway,” said Wigfrid. She looked at Wes. “Come along, silent one!”

“Actually,” said Wickerbottom, “I may need him. But you and Wolfgang must attend to the food stores, and Woodie, you need to stock our lumber. Run along.”

They left, Wigfrid with a regretful glance at Wes.

Wickerbottom sighed. “They have such good hearts but, oh dear. Carrying you around like a rag doll! Let me see your hands, dear.”

Wilson showed her the flower instead.

Wickerbottom reached for it and Wilson pressed the flower into her palm. Wickerbottom studied it, her lips compressed into a thin line. “Is she dead?”

Wilson shook his head.

“Where is she?”

Wilson pointed to his throat and winced apologetically.

“Are you having trouble speaking? I’m sorry to hear it, poor fellow. Let’s take a look.” Wilson opened his mouth. Wickerbottom peered inside. “Your throat is raw. Nothing some tea and a bit of time won’t fix. Now, I’ll give you some paper and a pen, and you can write what happened, where Wendy is and where you’ve been- can’t you? I know your hands are injured, but this is rather important.” She found the supplies and held them out to him.

Wilson nodded and made a grandiose, dismissive waving gesture. He took the supplies, plopped down in the corner and began to write.

Wickerbottom turned to Wes. “Please begin to boil water.”

Wes nodded and started heating up a stone pot full of water.

For quite a while, there was silence but for the scratching of pen on paper. When the water began to boil Wes took it off the fire and began to gather the materials for cleaning wounds without being asked.

As he did so Wilson set the pen down, sighing. He held out a page covered in the scrawl of a madman, with an occasional dot of blood to add to the effect.

Wickerbottom took the page and read it quickly. “I see, dear. We’ll take care of this. Now, we must tend to those hands. Come here, please.”

Wilson turned and looked in the direction of his little sub-camp instead. He pointed towards it.

“Yes, I understand,” said Wickerbottom. “You want to rest in your own quarters. A little later, just after I care for these wounds. Poor sod, look at this, you’ve completely lost a fingernail! This must hurt.”

Wilson pointed at the fire.

“Are you cold?”

Wilson shook his head with a scowl. He was asking about Willow, that seemed fairly obvious. The ache for a woman was one that exceeded all other pain.

Wes adopted Willow’s mannerisms for a moment- a puckish twist of the lips, a callous light in the eyes that masked an inner wariness and some buried tragedy.

Wilson replied with the physical shock of one who has seen the ghost of a loved one.

Wes popped over to the other camp to see if she was there. She wasn’t.

He returned to the main camp and gestured patience.

Wilson slumped in disappointment.

“There, see?” Wickerbottom said. “Wes also believes you must stay here for the moment. You can go home once you’re treated.”

Wilson looked at her as if seeing something else on another plane. Wes wondered if he was even listening.

Wickerbottom reached for his hands. He flinched away and got up to pace.

“Wilson Percival Higgsbury,” Wickerbottom said in a voice one would use to address an unruly toddler. The man stopped pacing and sat back down, eyes wide. “Give me your hands.”

He did so.

Halfway through the second hand, he perked up at an approaching noise and got to his feet.

“Sit down!” Wickerbottom scolded, but was not heeded.

It was Webber, trotting in. When he saw Wilson all eight eyes grew wide. “Mr. Higgsbury!”

Webber ducked his head and bolted forward like a footballer, diving head-first into the man’s soft gut for a tackle-hug. Wilson was knocked back a step. 

If Wilson was disappointed not to see the person he had been originally hoping for, he did not show it in the slightest. He put his arms around Webber and gingerly patted his furry back.

Wickerbottom bustled over. “Now, Webber, I know you are excited to see him, but Mr. Higgsbury requires peace and quiet. He’s injured his hands somehow and he appears to have lost his voice. No, Higgsbury, kindly don’t attempt to protest, we both know you’re not well.”

“Oh,” said Webber. “That’s too bad, might we help?”

“You might begin preparing dinner. It’s getting late.” Ah, Wes could certainly do with something to eat.

Webber nodded and scurried to the crock pot.

Wickerbottom beckoned Wilson back and sat him down to finish up her work. As she was picking up the things, the sound of another approach began.

Wolfgang and Wigfrid thundered into the camp. Wes opened his arms in greeting and was acknowledged with a nod from Wigfrid.

“Smart lady!” Wolfgang boomed.

“We have found something intriguing!” Wigfrid yelled. “The portal to the dark world is in ruins!”

Wilson nodded.

“Yes, I know, dears,” said Wickerbottom. “Mr. Higgsbury explained to me that Wendy is somewhere inside there, but apparently she has attempted to block off the entrance. Do be dears and try to look for a way back into it, but do not-”

Before she could finish Wigfrid and Wolfgang hollered a cacophony of assent and rushed off. Wes could go with them, but at this juncture he would only slow them down, whereas he may yet be of some use here at camp.

Wickerbottom sat down beside Wilson and picked up his half-bandaged right hand. He put up no resistance, limbs as yielding as a rag doll’s. “I was going to warn them,” she said, “not to go inside if they are able to reopen the portal. But I suppose if they want to there would be no stopping them. You have not explained what happened to you, dear…”

Wilson studied his bandaged hand. He made feeble clawing motions with it, in some sort of lackluster attempt at mime.

Wes made some quick assumptions. He stepped forward into a spot where everyone could see him. Once he was confident of an audience, Wes fell to his knees and became a man crazed, trying to dig through a heap of rubble to find a small child and atone for his eldritch sins and accursed hubris!

Wilson turned a horrified shade of gray.

Wes looked at him quizzically. He looked away, eyes glazed.

Wickerbottom still seemed as if she did not quite understand. Not everyone was versed in the art of the invisible. And Webber was completely confused. No one was making any attempt to explain anything to him.

Wes took Webber aside and reenacted the day’s events for him.

“Oh!” Webber said. “Poor Wendy.”

Yes, indeed, poor Wendy.

There was another piece of the puzzle here which currently, no one had mentioned. Maxwell.

Wickerbottom had finished with her bandages. She studied the blisters on Wilson’s wrists and tutted. She went to rummage through the chests.

Webber had started something in the cook pot. The air smelled of roasting meat.

Wes inched over to Wilson. He took on the coldly refined air, hiding a deep guilt and grief, of the evil mastermind.

Wilson hugged his knees and stared at nothing. The fellow had taken all that he could handle for the time being.

Then it was time for someone else to take over. Wes had watched from the sidelines for too long. The life of a child was at stake.

He slipped unnoticed out of the camp.

\--

He found Maxwell picking through his burned camp. The elder man looked up at Wes and frowned. “He did this, didn’t he.”

It was not a question and so Wes did not answer it.

Instead, he took a deep breath and said aloud: “Come with me, please.” His own voice, unused for so long, sounded strange. Wrong.

Maxwell did not register any wrongness, casually saying: “Oh, really? Why?”

“It is time for you to address what you have done.”

Maxwell stood to his full height. He was well over six feet, able to look down upon anyone he chose. “And why do you think I’ll go with you?”

“Because if you do not come with me I will kill you.” Wes showed him the handful of blow darts he had ‘borrowed’ from Wigfrid’s stores.

Maxwell raised an eyebrow. “Will you.”

“I am aware that death means so little here. But when you awake from death you will be in the camp, surrounded by your enemies. So you will be where I want you to go in the end, but the way you arrive there is of your choosing.”

“Oho. And you think you could kill me, do you? It takes a certain mental state to be able to kill a man in cold blood. Not many people have that makeup.”

“It is true that I am not a man who has the heart for destruction. But you will be dead only a little while, and you have caused so much suffering that my blood is not cold. I know that I could do this.”

Maxwell sized him up with a wry, acid smirk. Wes guessed at what he would say before he said it: “In this game I know a liar when I see one, pal. And I know who’s not a liar.” He raised his hands and his eyebrows. “I surrender, mime.”

And after that moment, Wes did not speak again.


	34. A Fencing Accident; or, Suicide By Maxwell For Unexplained Reasons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/n: Wow, it's been nearly two months since the last story! I should put something up. Uh.. uh... what do I have on my hard drive... uh... Here, have some pointless Wilson death.

An undersized Grim Reaper was coming for Maxwell.

The cloaked and hooded figure was making its way over the rolling prairie towards his camp at an unhurried pace, stopping now and again to notice a bird or harvest a patch of long grass.

Perhaps this was a joke.

Perhaps one of the puppets had gone off their nut and was finally coming for him with an axe.

Perhaps Maxwell should run. He would have ample time to get out of here before the dawdling mouse caught up to the cat.

He would not run. He wanted to see where this was going.

The figure came to the edge of Maxwell’s camp, stopped, and threw back his hood to set free a fluff of hair.

“Ah,” said Maxwell.

“Good evening to you,” Wilson said. He licked the tips of his fingers, reached up behind his ears and began to make a doomed attempt to neaten curls that had never and would never be neat.

“And a good evening to you,” Maxwell said, raising his eyebrows.

“It’s not horrible weather we’re having.”

“Middling, I’d say.”

Wilson nodded in agreement.

Maxwell cleared his throat. “I don’t suppose you’re here because you _want_ something.”

“Well, as a matter of fact.” Wilson scratched the side of his nose and avoided eye contact. “I was wondering if you could… help out an old pal.”

“That depends entirely on what my pal expects me to do.”

Maxwell’s trusty sword was (and also wasn’t, being a physical impossibility and all) sitting on the ground nearby, close at hand in case of emergencies. Wilson studied it. “You know how to use a sword, eh?”

“You’ve seen me use it, haven’t you?”

Wilson set his fists on his hips. “My own skills as a swordsman could use some sharpening. In fact, I don’t have any skills as a swordsman to begin with.”

“I don’t doubt that.”

“But you do.”

“Of course. What are you getting at?”

Wilson scuffed at the ground. “Well, I could become rather skilled with a sword, if someone taught me.”

“I suppose that’s possible.”

He glanced sidelong at Maxwell, looking rather shy in his own brassy way.

“Hold on a tick,” said Maxwell. “I am that someone. You want me to give you _lessons?”_

“Lessons! That’s a good idea. How brilliant of you!”

“You know what else you don’t have skills in? Flattery.”

The light was dim, and Maxwell wasn’t wearing his glasses, but he was fairly certain that Wilson was blushing to the roots of that ridiculous hair. “Look, I’m tired of being the worst fighter in camp!”

“Worse than the mime?”

“Maybe! I’ll make it worth your while!”

Maxwell leaned back. “Why ask me? If you’re the worst fighter in the camp, that means there are ten creatures who could help you improve, and I ought to be your tenth choice.”

Wilson rocked on the balls of his feet. “They all go easy on me. They like me, is the problem. And you… do not.”

That was sensible logic, Maxwell supposed. “How, pray tell,” he said, “will you make this worth my while?”

“I don’t know, you tell me. Everyone wants something, correct? That’s how we all wound up here.” Seeing the look on Maxwell’s face, he backtracked hastily. “I don’t mean… ah… well, surely there’s a way to compensate you for a few hours of your time?”

Maxwell scratched the underside of his chin. He had not prepared for this sort of situation, that was for certain. “Do you know that getup makes you _more_ conspicuous?”

“Conspicuous?”

“Not very sneaky.”

Wilson was tiresomely patient. “I wasn’t sneaking anywhere.” He pulled the cloak tighter around his stumpy torso. “It’s nippy.”

Fair enough.

So what was happening here was that Wilson was offering to let Maxwell swing a sword at him.

“I tell you what I’ll do,” said Maxwell. “Since you and I are such great pals, I’ll give you one lesson for the low price of my own amusement.”

* * *

Like most people, Wilson did not care for the feel of the sword-that-ought-not-to-be. At least, that was the impression Maxwell got from the way his eyes got very round when he touched the hilt.

Maxwell briefly attempted to recall the way his fencing lessons had started long, long ago- then he decided to wing it.

“En garde!”

He charged.

There was a flurry of dodging, parrying and thrusting. Maxwell used senses other than sight to guide his sword, though he could not say just what they were, and he knew the exact moment when his blade aimed directly for the heart of the one who had never really stood a chance.

Maxwell deflected the blade at the last minute, leaving the hapless opponent with only the lightest scratch across his upper arm.

Wilson stood there gasping for breath, shoulders heaving. He glowered up at Maxwell. “You’re going easy on me!”

“Am not.”

“You could have killed me and yet!”

“You want me to kill you? This is suicide by Maxwell?”

“No!” He fumbled something shiny out of the neck of his cloak. An amulet. “There’s no fear of that. How will I learn if you go easy on me?”

“It’s like training wheels.”

“The amulet is the training wheels!” Wilson rushed at him with the sword although they had not agreed to start again.

Maxwell deflected the blade. “Cheating! That’s a good start.”

They danced some more and shortly Maxwell found his opening again. He turned the blade aside from tender vitals, leaving another little scratch along Wilson’s ribs.

“You don’t think I can take it?” Wilson snapped.

“I fail to see how stabbing you to death will teach you anything. I suspect the real issue is something diff-“

Wilson was swinging the sword again. He was tiring already and making more openings, it was a brief time before Maxwell’s chance once again presented itself.

As he was becoming bored with this game, Maxwell did as he was requested and plunged the sword directly into the tender abdomen.

Wilson stood there frozen and gasping, the nightmare blade buried in his belly up to the hilt. Maxwell’s sword was preventing the wound from bleeding more than a trickle. When the blade was withdrawn, the fellow would bleed to death.

“Well, you asked me to,” Maxwell said.

If Wilson had recanted and begged for medical help, perhaps Maxwell would have attempted to ameliorate the situation, but the smaller man only looked at him imploringly and said: “I thought maybe I’d do better if it was for real but I didn’t.”

Maxwell cleared his throat.

Wilson continued: “Although I suppose it’s for real most of the time, and I don’t do so well anyway. You can take your sword out now.”

Maxwell withdrew a blade slick with human blood and began wiping it off on the grass. “Do you care to tell me what this nonsense was all about?”

“I told you. Combat practice.” Wilson pressed both hands to his bleeding stomach. “I’m making a mess, I should die somewhere else.”

“You understand that this was not very… well, it looked to the unpracticed eye as if you desired that I stab you.”

“No, not at all.”

“Er-“

“If I wanted to die I could kill myself. I’ll be going now,” and he staggered off.

An undersized Grim Reaper wandered away in aimless fashion, fell to his knees and was resurrected in a bright flash of light. Gathering his things, he continued on his way home.

Maxwell shook his head. Whatever that had been about, it really wasn’t his problem.

He cleaned his sword, put it away and started making himself dinner.


	35. Emotional Intelligence; or, Wickerbottom Is Much Befriended

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> continuity with other stories

Someone was having a nightmare.

Wickerbottom looked up from her book, searching for the source of the sound. That nice young woman and her hirsute friend were prone to nightmares; Wickerbottom had found that they were liable to become aggressive if awakened too abruptly.

The sounds she heard at the present time were coming from that muscled fellow they had found in the marsh yesterday. Wickerbottom approached and found him sitting up, looking into the shadows and whimpering.

Wickerbottom stood by him and cleared her throat, which startled him somewhat. “Are you all right, Mr. Wolfgang?”

“I do not like scary dark!” His eyes were those of a frightened puppy. 

“I see… nyctophobia.” How at odds with his physical perfection and boastfulness. “There is nothing in the dark that can hurt you, dear.” At the time, that was what she believed to be true. “Try to calm yourself. You are injured and need your rest.”

A very reasonable speech, but it seemed to have calmed him not at all. His thick, heavy limbs trembled like blades of grass. Wickerbottom would normally offer him a cup of tea but there was no tea at hand.

Wolfgang started in alarm, looking at something by Wickerbottom’s side. She turned to discover round gray eyes shining in the firelight.

“Hey, Wolfgang,” Willow whispered. “Had a bad dream?”

“Wolfgang doesn’t like dark,” Wolfgang said.

“Yeah, dark’s no good.” The young lady could be quite brusque, but she was gentle now. “Hey, I got someone here you’d like to meet, I bet!” She produced the tattered bear that she kept at her bedside. “This is Bernie! Wanna borrow him? He’d feel safe with you.”

“I will guard tiny bear!” Wolfgang took the bear and hugged it, disregarding its battered and filthy state.

“G’night!” Willow whispered, slipping back to her own hearth and her companion.

Wolfgang lay down, as at peace now as was the blonde child who slept near him, who was glacially calm in the dark and had not stirred an eyelash throughout the conversation.

“What was that?” Wickerbottom heard. That was Willow’s gentleman friend, Mr. Higgsbury. He still sounded quite weak. The poisonous meat he had been consuming had come near to making an end of him, the poor fool.

“The big guy was a little shaky,” Willow answered. “Scared of the dark, I guess.”

“Wow, really? What’s he have to worry about? He’s huge!” This was followed by a soft _thud_ and a noise of reproachful surprise, and Wickerbottom deduced that Willow had struck him.

* * *

"If I were a woman, I would kiss as many of you as had beards that pleas'd me, complexions that lik'd me, and breaths that I defied not; and, I am sure, as many as have good beards, or good faces, or sweet breaths, will, for my kind offer, when I make curtsy, bid me farewell."

She closed the book with an audible snap. The good little children who had been listening with attention to the story were unfazed. Mr. Higgsbury, sitting in the back making a useless half-attempt to chaperone, had fallen asleep with his back against a tree- the sound of the book closing started him awake.

The children looked rather solemn. Perhaps they had not understood the humor? “I do hope you enjoyed it,” Wickerbottom said.

Wendy shrugged slightly. “I prefer his tragedies, but it was an effective reading.”

Higgsbury was already dozing again. He had supposedly had a classical education but it did not seem to have taken root if he could not appreciate Shakespeare.

Webber sniffled and lowered his head. Wickerbottom leaned forward. The poor child would not meet her gaze. “What seems to be the trouble, young man?”

“Nothing,” he said, “only- mum and dad used to read to me, is all. We miss them sometimes.”

The poor mite! “Oh dear.” Wickerbottom set the book aside and patted her knees. “Come here.”

He hesitated at first, but before she could ask again he did come to her. She folded him onto her lap and stroked his dear head. She did not look up until she heard Wendy speak in a polite tone:

“I am beyond comforting, Mr. Higgsbury, but thank you.”

Wendy and Higgsbury were sitting a few feet apart, him viewing her ruefully. Whatever had passed between them Wickerbottom had missed it.

Wendy looked directly at Webber then and said: “If it is any help, at least your parents cannot see what’s become of you.”

She could not possibly intend such cruelty.

She continued: “I doubt your current state would make them happy.”

She was trying to say that Webber’s parents had been spared the sight of his deformity. If she did not understand how wrong it was to say that at this moment, then how could she be made to understand? She did not mean to be cruel- she was a child.

Webber’s eyes were distant.

“It’s difficult,” Wendy said, “seeing someone change, and being unable…” She must be thinking of her sister. “I’ve just upset you. Never mind.” She got up abruptly and left into the undergrowth, with Higgsbury following her. That seemed as if it must end badly, but Wickerbottom could hardly leave Webber at the moment, nor did it seem wise to take him with her. There was no telling what else Wendy might say to him.

“Is Wendy going to be all right?” Webber asked.

It was rare that Wickerbottom was asked a question that she had no answer to.

“Are you okay, dear?” she asked. How sweet of him, to feel concerned for the girl who had no doubt hurt him dreadfully with her words.

“I suppose so. Do you think she’s right, that my mum and dad wouldn’t want to see me anymore?”

“I- err-“ Terrible as it was, that was a possibility under the circumstances. “Surely not. No, surely not, dear. I’m certain your parents love you far too much to let that… er…”

Someone was approaching. Perhaps it was Higgsbury with Wendy. That would partially be a relief- she didn’t like to think of what nonsense he might be telling her. And yet, she did not want Wendy to say anything else.

The sounds of approach were made by Wolfgang, who now appeared in the clearing. There was a pickaxe in one of his hands, a sack full of rocks dangling from the other.

“Hello, book lady!”  Wolfgang came to a dead halt, eyes fixing on Webber. “Spider boy is sad?”

“He is a touch homesick,” Wickerbottom explained.

Wolfgang threw aside the things he had gathered. “Spider boy should not be sad!” He snatched the child off of Wickerbottom’s lap quite before she could react, and tossed him in the air, a dangerous act that caused Webber to giggle. “Wolfgang will cheer you up!” He tousled Webber’s fur and placed the child high up in the tree Higgsbury had been dozing against just before the incident.

“That’s rather risky,” Wickerbottom said. But she could not reach Webber up there to take him down and Wolfgang was paying her no mind.

“Hup!” said Wolfgang, tossing the pickaxe and balancing it on end on his nose.

“Wow!” said Webber.

Wolfgang bent down, affixed his moustache to the bag of rocks and lifted it thus, dangling from his facial hair.

Webber clapped and grinned.

“Spider boy is no longer sad. Wolfgang is happy!” Wolfgang set Webber gently down on the ground, collected his things and strolled off.

Webber turned to Wickerbottom with all of his eyes aglow. “We could balance four things on these at once if we learned,” he said, indicating the spider legs dangling from his head.

“Yes, dear. You ought to try. With light items, of course, nothing too heavy!”

Webber appeared to have forgotten his troubles. Wolfgang was such a nice man.

* * *

Higgsbury traced and re-traced the figures on the wall, muttering under his breath. His eyes were dull, his hands trembled.

Willow had only muttered that he was ‘acting weird’ that morning. At first glance the behavior had seemed normal to Wickerbottom, but then she had noticed the unusual repetition.

“What are you working on, dear?” she asked, having now observed for several minutes without the fellow acknowledging her presence.

“Nothing. How can I work on anything when nothing works?” The figures he was tracing were of a fairly short equation, though whether one of mathematics, chemistry or physics she could not quite tell. His handwriting was deplorable.

“If a and c share a property,” said Higgsbury, “and b and c share the same property, then a and b are meaningless specks screaming into the Void! Rate equals distance divided by the time it takes a swarm of ants to clean the flesh off my face. A carbon atom triple-bonded to a nitrogen atom signifies that we will all die here and no one will ever know where we've gone-”

She took hold of his shoulders. “Snap out of it, man! This way lies madness!”

His frame was light and bony. “Why do we even try any longer, Wickerbottom?” he asked in a melancholy tone. “Where are we going to publish our results with no journals? Perhaps I’ll start a journal, and you’ll read it, and you and the things underground can discuss my methods-“

“You are talking nonsense,” said Wickerbottom. “Your mind is troubled.”

Higgsbury pointed at the wall of figures he’d drawn. “Physics don’t work anymore! Matter and energy _can_ be destroyed! Objects fall at unequal speeds! My clothing doesn’t wear out but my stone tools do! Why?”

“You must simply come to terms with the fact that things are different in different worlds!”

“I don’t like this world!”

“I understand, but-“

“I gotta get out of here!”

“Mr. Higgsbury?” Wickerbottom’s head turned. Webber had appeared in the mouth of the tent.

“Please go off and play, Webber,” said Wickerbottom. “Mr. Higgsbury is not well.”

But Webber came closer. “Oh! Do you miss your mum and dad too?”

Higgsbury took a deep breath and his eyes came into focus. “Me? Ah… my parents?” He gave Webber a shaky smile. “No, Webber, I miss other things.”

“Like what?”

Wickerbottom was prepared to head off some foolish outburst but Higgsbury said: “Indoor plumbing.”

Webber crept closer and took the man’s limp hand into a tiny claw. “I miss lots of stuff too, but I suppose I’ll miss this place after I get home. There are nice things about here.”

“Mm,” said Higgsbury in a noncommittal tone.

“Where did you used to live?” Webber asked.

Higgsbury began to speak in a tumbled rush. “Maine, near the sea. I’d get awful cold in winter and from my laboratory I could hear crows and smell the pine forest. Sometimes I think I’m still there but then I wake up and I’m not.”

“I lived out in the country,” Webber said. “The grass smelled nice in the sun and I’d chase bunnies and pick flowers to make flower chains for Mum.”

“I used to pick berries in the woods when I was hungry and didn’t want to go to the store,” said Higgsbury with a distant look in his eyes. “Come to think of it, those bushes might have belonged to someone…”

“Some things aren’t so different here,” said Webber in the most reasonable tone.

“I guess not.”

“We’re all still the same people!” Webber pointed out. Wickerbottom wondered how much of Higgsbury’s breakdown he had overheard and understood. “Even if we’ve changed a little bit, we’re not different on the inside.”

“You’re right, Webber. Out of the mouths of babes. And bugs.” Higgsbury sniffled and said: “You’re a good kid.”

“Aw,” said Webber with a smile.

Wickebottom crept behind him and began to surreptitiously destroy the wall of madness.

“Go ahead, I was done with that,” said Higgsbury without looking round to see what she was doing. He ruffled the fur on Webber’s head. “I’m gonna miss you guys when we go home.”

“You won’t have to miss us,” said Webber. “We’ll visit you!”

“Will you? I’d like that,” said Higgsbury.

He sounded as if he thought it would never come to pass.

* * *

“Hello?” That was Willow’s voice.

Wickerbottom looked up from poking the fire to see Willow, Higgsbury, Wolfgang and Webber all standing in a neat row. Oh dear, they must have destroyed something.

“What is it, dears?” she asked.

Higgsbury cleared his throat. “Would you care to come with us for a moment?” He looked quite self-important and Wickerbottom revised her assessment. He had invented something, and wanted an audience.

“Book lady must see something!” Wolfgang added. Perhaps this invention had been successful.

“It’s not gross,” said Webber.

“Don’t read too much into it, just come with us,” said Higgsbury, now looking even more pleased with himself than before. They all looked pleased with themselves, for that matter.

Willow took Wickerbottom’s hand. “Sheesh! We don’t got all day!” Wickerbottom itched to correct her grammar, but she suspected that Willow was doing it purposefully for effect.

Willow led her away down the path. The whole group followed, giving Wickerbottom anticipatory glances.

They led her to an odd lean-to structure that they had constructed just off the main path. A sort of desk or table was out in front of it.

Wickerbottom peered into the structure. Inside were roughly-built shelves.

No, bookcases. There was a sign on the desk out front: _Reference desk._ And inside, another sign: _Please Be Quiet In The Library._

They had made all of this for her.

“It was my idea!” Webber chirped.

Higgsbury was quivering with pride. “I drew up blueprints!”

“I fixed the blueprints!” Willow said, swinging Wickerbottom’s hand back and forth.

“Wolfgang carried tiny book shelves into little library!” Wolfgang boomed.

“You’ll have to stock the shelves,” Higgsbury said.

“You have built me a library,” said Wickerbottom. Her eyes grew misty.

Willow nudged her. “Don’t cry or anything, just say thank you.”

Wolfgang threw his arms out. “Group hug!”

Wickerbottom submitted to the crush of bodies.

Dear friends. Dear, dear friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in this canon Wolfgang kept the bear and Willow never got it back which is why Bernie never appears anywhere else


	36. Wendy Triumphant

Wendy picked up the feather pencil and made the last finishing touch on the doll; a tiny tear running down her cheek.

Webber was keeping one or four eyes on the process as he ran a shoddily-constructed toy car back and forth over the floorboards. “Why did you make her sad, Wendy?”

“Life is pain,” she replied, setting the doll next to the one she had made for Abigail.

At that moment, she chanced to hear Willow and Ms. Wickerbottom conversing in low tones.

“He is usually gone for several days when he wishes to document some phenomenon, or so I believed,” said the old sage. “I seem to recall that the last time we searched for him, we found him lying in the grass sketching the anatomy of a wormhole! He had no idea what all the fuss was about, forgetful boy.”

Willow sounded tense. “He didn’t take his blanket.”

“His… blanket?”

“Yeah, he has this beefalo blanket and he always takes it with him when he’s going to be gone overnight. See, it’s right here, in his tent.” Her voice became slightly muffled, presumably because she had gone into Higgsbury’s tent. “It’s all worn out in spots.”

“Perhaps he forgot it, dear,” Wickerbottom suggested.

Wendy took note that Webber was also listening to the conversation, head-legs aquiver.

Willow was becoming miffed. With Wickerbottom or with Higgsbury, Wendy could not tell. “Then he forgot his heat stone, too.”

“Er?”

A series of rattling and clanking noises ensued, accompanied by Willow’s restless footsteps. “His feet get cold at night, so he has a heat stone, and this is his hairbrush which he also usually takes with him because he’s weird about his hair. And this is his cold amulet, he takes that too. He wouldn’t forget _all_ of it!”

“Mr. Higgsbury has a lot of stuff,” Webber whispered. “He has a really cool bug collection.”

“Some of us are comforted by material things.” Wendy had a rabbit skull collection.

Wickerbottom was saying: “If he had died, surely he would have returned at one of the statues? There are three in camp.”

“No,” said Willow, “I think he’s like, trapped somewhere. Like maybe his leg got stuck under a falling tree or something. I’m gonna go look for him.”

“I’m sure no irreparable damage has been done,” said Wickerbottom.

Webber turned to Wendy, wide-eyed. “You think he’s lost?”

“Our Wilson Higgsbury?” she replied. “He has been lost for some time.”

Webber cocked his head quizzically.

“I mean in an existential sense,” she clarified.

* * *

It was Willow who chose to involve her directly.

The next day, Wendy was maintaining the camp’s water stores- they needed to be strained and boiled, and at present she was boiling. Willow walked up with a sheet of papyrus in one hand.

”Is this a suicide note?” she demanded. Wickerbottom was not nearby to take issue with the bluntness.

Wendy was the expert on that subject, she supposed. She took the note and glanced at it.

_If you’ve been reading this I must have been gone for quite some time- at least long enough for you to search my things._

That had only taken one day. Willow was not a patient woman.

 _You may not see me again, but you will see the results of my mission soon enough. If we don’t meet again, you were all my very good friends, and I did this for all of you!_  
Hope this works,  
WpH

“It is not a suicide note,” said Wendy. “It is a suicide-mission note, I believe. Similar, but different. What his mission was, I do not know.”

Willow was nearly giving off smoke with the heat of her rage. “He’s gone off to do something dumb!”

“No doubt.”

“He’s lying in a ditch somewhere with a broken leg, I bet. And now I have to go find him. Ugh!”

She stormed off. But she delighted in being needed. Wendy well knew.

* * *

“Where are you going, Wendy?”

Wendy put on her backpack and looked over the spider child. “A dark and horrid place,” she said, “where you may not follow.” Abigail was present at that time, and though she said nothing she looked approving. Webber was far too innocent for these things.

He looked at his most innocent just now. “Oh… all right… are you playing in the graveyard? Miss Wickerbottom said not to.”

“I shall not be playing,” she said. “Keep our dollies company for us, please, Webber.”

“All right.”

She and Abigail left the camp. No one else stopped them on the way out; they were looking for Mr. Higgsbury. He had been missing for a week now, no hide nor hair nor bones of him anywhere.

Things were beginning to seem supernatural. Wendy was going to ask Uncle about the whole affair.

The door welcomed her with a mocking grin surrounded by putrid, impossible plants. Wendy bid goodbye to Abigail, for she could only follow within the flower- and she stepped through.

The figure standing above her when she came to was not Uncle.

“I knew you’d follow me,” said Wilson Higgsbury, and he began to pace back and forth. “But no dice, Will-“ He stopped, looking at her for the first time. “Wendy?”

She blinked.

He was dressed all in black, in a suit that added bulk in a manner no doubt intended to seem imposing- it only made him look rather rounded and spiky. His hair had worsened, somehow, and was shot through with white. But the biggest change was the miasma of power around him- a cold, draining power.

Wendy shrank from him. Despite knowing who and what he was, she shrank.

He began again to pace. “It oughtn’t to be you.” His voice was petulant. “I oughtn’t have to kill a child.”

Under ordinary circumstances, this petty tyrant would seem as threatening as a bowl of milk- and yet, he was so changed. Whatever had wrought the change was still in and around him.

He stopped and fixed her with a cockeyed squint. “Why are you in here, Wendy?”

She collected herself. “I wished to ask Uncle about your disappearance, but I found you. I suppose the puzzle is solved.”

He snorted. “Guess so.”

“Why are _you_ in here, if I may be so bold as to ask?”

“I’ve taken his place. I’m in charge now.”

“You are in Maxwell’s role. I was not aware that was something you wanted out of life.”

“I didn’t come looking for it. _I_ thought I wanted to go home, and save all my little friends in the bargain.”

Ah. The note he’d left. _You may not see me again, but you will see the results of my mission soon enough,_ it had said. “I see. And you thought this was the way out… but you were mistaken. The message you left was not very clear, scientist…”

“I think I didn’t want to give people false hope or something. I don’t know. I was _so concerned_ with what you all thought.” He popped onto the balls of his feet and settled back down onto his heels, hands clasped at the small of his back. “Anyhow, I’ve found something better and you should go now.”

“The only way out is death. But you know that if you got to the end, I would expect.”

“Ha! I’m in charge now! I decide what the way out is!”

He made a theatrical gesture and waited expectantly. Nothing happened. Wendy was fairly certain that he had intended to expel her from the world.

Higgsbury frowned. “That bas-“ He glanced at Wendy. “That fellow Maxwell seems to have exaggerated the extent of my new powers.” He rubbed his chin. “Does he set traps for me still? Bah! This doesn’t concern you, Wendy. Run along. I am working!” And he abruptly vanished. Not with the swirling portal or cloud of smoke that Maxwell would leave in his wake- he just vanished. Perhaps he had not yet learned the theatrics.

She needed to speak with Abigail about this immediately, and Abigail was still lagging in the other world. But it was simple thing to find and eat a few red mushrooms, and then she was back.

* * *

Abigail had always seen the glass half full where it stood half empty, smiled at strangers, made lemons out of lemonade, and been, in general, someone Wendy never agreed with.

They quite enjoyed their disagreements. They had spent hours disagreeing about the merits of the others on the island. Was Willow a destructive anarchist desperately searching for someone who made her feel needed, or generous and highly spirited? Was Wickerbottom condescending and standoffish or a confident introvert who knew best and knew she knew best? Did Wolfgang’s kind heart compensate for his cowardice? Was Wigfrid an eccentric and dedicated performer, or completely insane?

Wilson P. Higgsbury had always been an object of much contention. Abigail saw an awkward and egotistical but ultimately well-meaning and paradoxically self-sacrificing fellow, something of an odd uncle figure. Wendy saw a needy, delusional incompetent who prized attention and self-satisfaction over physical comfort.

Wendy was eager to share this newest development. Upon hearing it, Abigail thought that the man had been warped by the forces of the island. Wendy believed that the warping had been helped along by pre-existing inner darkness.

Abigail wanted to see this for herself. Wendy promised to summon her within and stepped back into the portal.

He reappeared with a look of strain. “Wendy! Again? I’m _very_ busy!”

“So end my miserable life.”

“You little brat!” She surprised herself by flinching. “You know I can’t do that. ‘Kill me, kill me, kill me.’ Nobody’s gonna kill you, and stay away from those red caps!”

He vanished.

Wendy went about the business of eking out an existence until she could summon her sister. She soon found that her uncle’s world had been altered. It was entirely too friendly. Frogs did not fall from the sky. She did not freeze. There was a marked shortage of clockworks.

Once Abigail had rejoined her, Wendy performed a little ritual she had learned to call forth Uncle. 

It still worked. Higgsbury appeared with a small cry of alarm and adjusted his tie. “How exactly did you do that?”

“That would be telling,” she said.

He squinted at Abigail, who was floating nearby and surveying the new suit. “Greetings,” he said curtly.

Abigail and Wendy had another point of disagreement here. Higgsbury proudly claimed not to believe in anything supernatural and rejected the notion of ghosts or spirits, but he treated Abigail as though her existence were given fact. Both sisters knew he was humoring Wendy. Abigail thought he did so out of kindness. Wendy thought he did it because he could not bear the discomfort of trying to ‘disillusion’ her.

Now, Higgsbury cast a jaded eye over Abigail and said: “I’ll be darned, you _are_ real.”

Wendy had prepared a few lines of questioning to be pursued before the man left again. “Where has Maxwell gone, now that he has been usurped?” she asked.

“Dead,” he replied simply.

“Dead?”

“Maxwell is dead and I have killed him.” Round, dark eyes grew wild with the memory, then focused on Wendy. “Oh… I killed your uncle.”

“I’m… sure you had your reasons.” Uncle had not been a popular man. It was not surprising that he had come to an end. She had not thought Higgsbury capable of orchestrating that end, however.

“If I could bring him back, I’d-“ He shook himself. “Bah! I’m the King, now! I execute whomever I want! I don’t need to dwell on this. Off with you.” He vanished.

Wendy turned to Abigail expectantly.

They shortly agreed that Higgsbury had lost his mind. How much of his new persona was due to corruption by outside forces and how much was due to a freedom from social constraints, they could not quite hash out.

Neither could they puzzle out what, exactly, he claimed to be so busy with.

That night, Wendy awoke to the sight of a large green furry beast with yellow eyes, flesh knotted as if it had been inexpertly pieced together. It had fangs, jowls and dripping drool. Its arms were humanoid and ended in clawed hands with opposable thumbs, but its yellow eyes and pointed ears were decidedly feline.

It ended Wendy’s life in one blow.

* * *

“Curiouser and curiouser, Alice said.”

Abigail drifted along the path beside her, quietly pensive. The surroundings tweeted, chirped and buzzed.

Wendy moved into the graveyard, where a wisp of mist flowed around her ankles. And ever _more_ curiouser, _he_ was sitting there, perched on a gravestone that stood guard over a messily desecrated pit of earth. He didn’t seem quite all there, in more ways than one; his visage was faintly translucent. She could just make out the trees behind him.

“Sorry about that, Wendy,” Higgsbury said, “I was testing something.”

“No apologies needed,” she said. “We all make mistakes.” _You more than most_ she did not add.

“I’ve taken those back out now. See, that was apparently something Maxwell could have done at any time, but he just left his failed experiments lying around, I suppose. But, anyway.” He looked at her with wary, hunted eyes. What was pursuing him? “Where are you going, little girl?”

“Here and there.”

“I would so appreciate it,” he said, “if you didn’t say anything about me to the others. About where I am. What I’ve become.”

“You don’t plan to make yourself known as their new ruler? You are in Maxwell’s place, are you not? And you said you were the King.”

“That man never ruled _me,”_ Higgsbury scoffed. “And I’m not that kinda King, you know. I wish to work undisturbed.” His voice was beginning to sound far away and the trees behind him looked sharper. “Just don’t tell them, Wendy. They might not understand. They might try and stop me…” He was now barely there.

“Quite possibly they might,” said Wendy.  “You know, I’ve often seen a scientist without a dug grave, but a dug grave without a scientist…”

He was gone.

Wendy continued on her way. Whether Higgsbury in fact ought to be stopped, she did not know. He had not shared what he was planning to do. Quite possibly he would fail to do anything.

She soon decided that for reasons of her own she would keep his secret. If she made these events known the camp would be thrown into complete chaos. Not to mention that Wickerbottom would prevent Wendy from exploring the matter any further and Wendy was still quite curious.

But perhaps the others could not be discomfited any more than they already had been. There was a desolate air over the camp, and those who had been willing to coordinate their activities with Wickerbottom now came and went as they pleased without a word to anyone. (Wendy was one of those.)

She did not know how much time had passed now, the other world tended to distort one’s perception of such things, but only Willow still bothered to search for Higgsbury. Wigfrid was missing too now.

All of the effigies were gone. Wendy preferred not to see them standing their grim and futile watch, but the others doubtless did not share her sentiments.

They were grieving for their lost friend, Abigail opined.

They were reminded of their own mortality, Wendy believed.

“When I died, was that all you thought about?”

“You were half of me.”

She stayed in camp only a few days before wandering afar. Something must be done. Perhaps she should have a word with Higgsbury… and then perhaps she should inform Wickerbottom to have a word with him. She knew that the man had not planned this, and was as much a victim of his own mistakes as anyone. And yet, he had caused suffering.

And then, as she wandered, another revelation.

Maxwell had camped in her favorite graveyard.

Here he was, her dearly departed uncle, sitting beside a crude pot and a fire pit. He did not look like a ghost. Nor did he look like he had wanted company, but yet he addressed her with a politeness she would not have anticipated: “Good day to you, Miss Wendy…”

“Good day,” she said. “A little raven told me you were dead.”

“Oh?” This did not seem to come as a shock. “I was, briefly. How is, er, Higgsbury?”

“Quite mad.”

“Ah. Moreso than usual, I take it.”

“Just a bit.”

“Ah.” He looked like a well-dressed and slightly abashed scarecrow.

“I don’t suppose you wish to give your side of the story?” she asked.

“Do I?” He had such an even temperament. He was changed too, then. “No one has asked me that in _quite_ a while.”

He considered this, while she waited for him to make a decision. She had time to observe him. He was a tall, thin man. Not as tall or imposing as he had seemed before, and his manner was quiet, somewhat fatigued. The resemblance to her father was more apparent now than it had been before, although Maxwell had a much sharper face.

“Higgsbury,” said Maxwell, “has, through an accidental loophole, taken on a punishment intended for myself, but without my considerable resources to withstand it. I really don’t think he’ll survive… at least, not as the man you knew him. You might not want to interact with him anymore. More than that, I don’t feel up to telling.” He looked her over. “I suppose you’ll be, ah, turning me in now.”

“You will be killed in a violent rage if I do. I do not know if that would be just. I will be on my way for now.”

Maxwell inclined his head to her. “You’re a class act.”

She was unsure that he deserved the release of death just yet.

\--

“What are you doing, little girl?”

The third world. Higgsbury was livid.

“I am driven by curiosity,” she said, “as you once were.”

This was untrue.

Wendy had found out what had happened to Wigfrid. She’d been overwhelmed by frogs, of all things, and perished. For good. There were no effigies remaining, after all.

In Wendy’s heart lurked cruelty, and whether because he had caused such pain to the others, who were more innocent, or because deep down she personally disliked Wilson Higgsbury and his stupid baseless optimism and his thoughtless remarks and his open need to be liked and admired, she derived pleasure from angering him now.

He pulled at his hair. “I do not have time for this!”

“A question if I would,” she said. “Did you expect Willow to come in here looking for you? When you first greeted me, you called me by her name.”

His mouth opened and closed. In his eyes were confusion. “Willow? Yes, there was a woman.” He frowned. “A foolish little man… and a foolish little woman.”

“Does it bother you that she has not come for you?” Wendy knew how Wickerbottom would disapprove of her speaking with the intention to wound. Though the elderly librarian was not present she had made an impression. Wendy almost felt remorseful.

Higgsbury looked at her blankly. “I know no one _really_ likes me.”

“Oh?” She was not at all certain that was true. Or at least, had been true when he was his prior self. This new version was quite unlikable. “You… may be mistaken… does it not trouble you, to be disliked?”

“If my old self was stupid enough to hope for unconditional affection from people I barely knew, that’s on me. I certainly didn't earn their friendship.”

If that had always been his opinion he had hidden it well. “I see. Speaking of dislike, Maxwell is not dead, you know.”

“He’s not?” Higgsbury cocked his head. “Well, I have been speaking to him now and then, but I thought I was just a little insane.”

“No, he seems to have recovered from whatever you did to him.”

“Hm.” His eyes narrowed. “Waaait a second! You’re trying to _distract_ me."

"I'm just making conversation..."

"Nothing doing! The buck stops here, kid, you’re not going any further!”

That proved to be an empty threat. He was actively trying to stop her now, but he was no Maxwell.

The fourth world.

Higgsbury was warped and flickering. “Why’d you let the mime out?”

“Sheer perversity. Was he your mime?”

He was quivering with rage. “No, and I had to take time out from my _very important work_ to greet him. I don’t know why.”

That must have been Maxwell’s mime. Uncle had quite the sense of humor, putting the poor fool into an invisible box. But that was over and done with. “What exactly are you working on?”

Higgsbury bared his teeth and paced. “Nothing lately, thanks to you! Wendy, you little fool! Are you trying to get to the end? You don’t want what’s at the end. You oughtta thank me for stopping you!”

He couldn’t stop her.

The fifth world. Wendy came to in darkness, surrounded by burning fires and flickering, pale flames on pillars.

She did not see him at first in the dim light. He was standing just at the edge of the circle of visible things. This time, he was not raving or glaring. Just standing there.

“How can I convince you?” he said, half to her, half to the encompassing darkness.

“You cannot.” What had begun as whim was now compulsion. She had to see the end. She did not believe she was acting entirely under her own volition any longer. But had she ever?

“Please… don’t come any farther.”

His face was expressionless but one tear slid down his cheek, catching the firelight. He started in surprise and touched his face, bringing his hand away to look at the wetness on it. “A… human heart,” he said, stilted and uncertain. “Still?”

Wendy did not know how to respond to this.

Higgsbury closed his hand into a fist and stuck the fist in his pocket. “I don’t. Like. Not having control. Watching.”

“A shame.” She had the sense, suddenly, that he was a mere shade, that she was seeing through him to something else that did not have to deal with a human heart.

And then he was gone.

* * *

She found him. Alone, but somehow not alone- she sensed a presence but saw nothing.

He was strapped into some kind of chair, slumped sideways in it, chin on chest. His lopsided ribs moved weakly up and down. His limbs had a slack, wasted appearance. Wendy had once thoughtlessly left a rabbit in a trap and found it half-starved and exhausted; the look of the man was similar to that rabbit. The dim eyes and all.

She had put the rabbit out of its misery, swiftly. The solution to this situation might prove more difficult.

At the sound of her footfalls he raised his head, looking at Wendy- and at something behind her that she could not see at present.

She stopped. The air was full of cheerful, absurd ragtime music. There was a gramophone sitting at Wilson’s feet. Its existence seemed a mockery.

He came alive in a sudden flurry, making a feeble but earnest attempt to break bonds that he must well know he could not break. The attempt did not last long and he fell limp again. “Get out!” His voice was weak and petulant. How he had breath to speak at all she did not know. “You’ve come too far. You’re starting to make me mad!”

She was starting to doubt that there was a way out.

She saw that his arms were blistered and bleeding from repeatedly trying to break his bonds. Foolish fellow. Poor foolish fellow. “Not what I expected,” she said.

"Aha! So you were curious... not everyone is cut out to know these things. Leave research to the researchers!" He tugged at his restraints again, though he still could not break them, could not ever break them, and pulling at them was making him bleed more. Perhaps he could not help himself.

He fell back again, breathing fitfully. He still breathed. And she sensed a flicker in him. His own soul? It still existed in there, somewhere.

“I did not expect to find you… alive,” she said.

“Are you satisfied now? I’m doing important work here. I mustn’t be interrupted. Go play.”

His legs were bound as well. She could not see the wounds in the flesh as they were covered with fabric and the bindings, but his pant legs were crusted with what must be blood. Perhaps pus as well. Gross.

“My face is up here!” he barked. “You’ve seen blood before.”

“Did Maxwell tell the truth, then?” Maxwell must have endured the same torment. She did not recall seeing the marks of being bound upon his limbs. How curious. Yet, how irrelevant to her current situation.

“Maxwell?” Wilson spat. “Forget about that has-been and his bunnies out of hats. I’m in charge now.”

Did he really think that? Was he so delusional, or did he just refuse to acknowledge that Wendy was able to handle truth? And that music was still mocking them both.

“Don’t worry!” he continued to babble. “I’m a genius! But you have to leave me to my work! I’ve already lost so much precious time-“

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but this is a horrible distraction,” she said, and she turned off the music.

Wilson slumped in his seat, closing his eyes. “I’ve been listening to that horrible thing for so long.” He seemed deflated. The relief of silence appeared to have made a chink in his armor.

Was this what he had hoped to spare her from? The sight of his derelict condition?

 _No, no, silly girl,_ she chided herself. _It’s so obvious. He wanted to dissuade me from taking his place._

There was a device nearby that was an obvious fit for the diving rod she held. Not a rod- a key. It yearned for the lock.

Wilson’s eyes opened- they were blue. Wendy had blue eyes as well but a much lighter shade. An odd thought came to her: _We are not as different as I once believed, he and I. He knows what he is after all._

Wilson looked back at her in a way that made her uncomfortably suspicious that he also knew what she was better than she had thought he did, and with a last rallying he said: “Enough of this. If you won’t leave, I’ll have to get rid of you!”

There was a feeling in the air that made her hair stand on end as he struggled with powers that were not his and would not cooperate. He had tried this before. Surely he did not think the same thing would magically start to work if he wanted it badly enough. Perhaps he had no other ideas.

Wendy was getting an inkling of how to end this charade. She would call his bluff.

She curtsied.

He stared at her, plainly appalled, and fully alert. It was as if she had thrown cold water over him.

“Your Majesty,” she said, with deference. “Forgive me for my confusion.”

“Oh no,” he spluttered, his drained cheeks flushing delicately. “I’m just- I’m a scientist.” And as if it were relevant: “I’m from Massachusetts.”

“Shall I call you Doctor, then?”

“I’m not a d-doctor.” The throne had been made for Maxwell, a much taller man, and Wilson was dwarfed by it. “Please. Just leave.”

She looked at the lock. It called to her. She was not sure she wanted to resist, although she would be a fool not to want to resist. She was looking directly at what her fate would be and yet… “Maybe you’ve forgotten… there’s no way out from here.”

"Of course there is! You've wanted to kill yourself for a long time, haven't you? Well-"

Ah. She had been wrong to think he understood anything. "Yes. I have been tempted by death, and I've resisted. It has never been  _recommended_ to me before."

"Sometimes it's the right way out."

She could think of no reply to this and was unsure he deserved one. Instead, she made her way over to the lock.

“I have so much to do,” Wilson mumbled. “You have to leave.”

She held the key over the lock.

“No! Stupid girl!” he cried. “Get out!” The façade re-established itself quickly. Something was here, she believed, that did not want her to see the true picture of things. Too late.

“That’s rude.” Her mouth was dry. Though she did not truly wish to resist, she was not without qualms entirely. She must open the lock in the end, but perhaps she could humor Wilson for a trifle longer first?

“A pox on you!” he was spitting.

“Don’t you know any stronger language?”

“Stronger language? You are thirteen years old!”

She turned to study him again. “I see.” It occurred to her that he had been rather awful, but less so than he could have been. His worst was rather feeble.

“Now put that down,” he said feverishly. “I can talk to your parents, you know. I’ll bring them here and they’ll tan your hide.”

“My parents wouldn’t last long here.” Especially not Mother, who was already dead.

“Then I’ll bring them _back!_ Didn’t know I could do that, did you? Huh?” He tried to grin and failed miserably. “Remember Wigfrid?”

"The Valkyrie? Yes, she felled a score of giants only to be swarmed by frogs and lose her life. It was a poor end to a promising heroine." Because Wilson had not been there to maintain his effigies.

He wriggled in his bonds. "I know something you don't know! I know all sorts of things you don't know!"

"And I suppose you'd like to tell me?"

"She's just an actress!"

He was the only person who had not known that shortly after her arrival. "Yes, she spoke of intermissions..."

"She's not dead!"

"Isn't she?"

"She's on a different island. But not for long! I built a door. A different door, I mean. You'll all be seeing her again real soon. No one ever leaves here, Wendy. That's why I'm going to make it so much better for all of you!”

“That’s what you were doing,” she said softly. "Or what you thought you were doing."

He did not seem to have heard her. “I'm moving the islands together. It's slow, though. So I added doors. I did think of everything. Oh, you'll see." His voice broke. "You can't see it yet... I hear you, you know! Maxwell is saying nasty things about me. He thinks I'm sitting here twiddling my thumbs but he has another thing coming."

“I believe you. You must be getting awfully tired.”

He was so bad at artifice, and the word ‘tired’ brought a flicker of misery into his eyes, but he said: “Hmph! Tired? Science does not tire and neither do I.”

"Your dedication is rare indeed,” she said sweetly. “I assume you are also working through pain?"

Another yearning look, but he said: "Pain is nothing besides progress.”

"A short respite will not lessen your dedication."

"How am I supposed to take a break when there's so much work to be done?"

"None of your work will be undone," she said. She genuinely did not care to alter whatever he might have done.

He scowled. "Put that rod away! You don't want to be here. It's no fun. And you can't help your sister. I tried.”

Her hands felt cold.

“I thought of everything,” he muttered, looking off into the dark. “I belong here."

Previously, she would have said that Wilson only wanted to help her to feel better about himself or get accolades from the others. But it was only himself and her, now. He would not have made his arms so raw if he didn’t want his freedom, whatever he might say. And if he were to be believed- and he was not a good liar- he had been working to what he thought was the good of the others, entirely in secret.

But he had been small, and petty, and blustering, and ugly. He still was. How could he be good and bad? How could he be selfless and arrogant? He must be one or the other and she had seen his darkness.

He held her gaze, blinking fitfully. A human heart, she recalled, had two halves. Not everyone had an Abigail to serve as the good half. Perhaps in others the good and the evil jostled together… perhaps Wilson could be a good man with bad parts, or a bad man with good parts, or equally parceled out between the two.

And then, from nowhere, she heard something. Inside of her and outside at the same time. _(He is wrong. You can be with her again. Really with her. You can be whole again.)_

It was a lie, but such a targeted one that she could not resist.

 _(Tell him: )_ Her mouth opened. "Don't the whispers seem rather cold? Aren't you hearing less than you would like?"

She did not know what that meant but Wilson did. "But- but- no! Put that away!" And he struggled once more. Always struggling. Never winning.

She sighed heavily. “Your turn has ended.”

He began to sob as she put the key in the lock. “No, no, no, no…”

It didn’t matter anymore who or what he was. This was the end of the road.

Long live the queen.


	37. MERRY CHRISTMAS! or; And Maxwell's Small Heart Grew Three Sizes That Day

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Willow's candle and Webber's elf outfit are from 's festivizer mod. Maxwell’s shadow picket fence just kind of seemed like something he would have.


	38. Internal Injuries; or, Willow Likes Truth Or Dare But Not The Truth Part

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> talking talking talking talking

Wilson sat in the flickering firelight all hunched over like a little gargoyle with his arms wrapped loosely around his ribs.

Willow poked at the egg before her on the hot rock. It was turning white and solid and starting to crackle at the edges. The magic of fire.

“Sure you don't want me to take a look?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Maybe I can help?”

He shook his head, frowned, and hunched over a little more. “Nothing to be done for cracked ribs,” he said.

“Okay.” She didn't want to see his naked chest anyway. She barely knew him and he exactly didn't seem like much of a looker under there. It was just weird to see him sitting there in pain and not be any help, was all. “You don't even want ice for it or anything? We have like a million chunks of ice and I'm sure not gonna do anything with 'em.”

“No.” He looked away and fidgeted. “I'm fine. Don't want to be a bother.”

“Alright, if you insist. I think your egg's done.” She pushed the rock over to him.

He looked at it as if it were some foreign object that had never existed before. “That's for me?”

“Yeah. I hate eggs.” Especially penguin eggs. They had a fishy taste.

“It's yours though.”

“Just eat it. Okay? If you feel that bad about it, you can help me get more food when you're better.”

“Th-thank you.” He ate hunched over, casting little glances around his surroundings while he did. 

Willow's gaze drifted back to the more pleasant sight of the fire. She was not yet certain that she liked Wilson. At all. And she wasn't like a touchy-feely kinda gal or anything. And yet there was something about him that made her want to help him out. A look in his eyes like looks she'd seen on starving alley cats with cans tied to their tails. 

And when she helped him he looked like he thought she was such a good person... even if it was just a little thing like giving him a gross egg she didn't want to eat anyway...

“Willow?”  
“Hm?”

“I've been terribly rude,” he said. “You've saved my life and I don't even know your surname.”

“I didn't say it,” she said.

“I've been talking about myself too much for you to get a word in,” he said. “What about you? Where are you from?”

“Here and there! Geez, I never asked about you either. Where're you from?”

“I'm from... here and there too, I guess...” 

“Oh, really?” she asked. “Where?”

“I grew up in Massachusetts but I went to boarding school in England.”

Wow. His family must be loaded.

“I moved to Maine a bit ago,” he said. “I had a little place out in the woods. Way out in the wilderness.”

Owned his own house and everything.

“I think when I get back,” he said, “I'll move to the center of Boston. I've had enough wilderness.”

“Ha. So've I.”

He sighed and winced as the sigh tugged on his broken ribs. “Unh. But what about you? I've just gone on about myself again.”

She shrugged. “I asked, though. Ah, doesn't matter, I'll never go back.”

Wilson fiddled with his beard and frowned. “You must be homesick. I'm sorry, you mustn't like to talk about it...”

“It's just not interesting. No fancy boarding schools or nothing.” Just orphanages.

“Hmm. I see. It's getting late... you must be tired, I can stay up and keep watch tonight.”

“Nah! I'm not tired.” She didn't get tired when there was fire. “You rest. Your ribs are busted.” 

“But I slept all through last night!”

“So? Most people do it every night.”

“You haven't gotten  _any_ sleep,” he protested.

“I'm not tired.”

He bit his lip and said: “I won't do anything to your camp if you sleep, you know. I won't steal anything.”  
“I know, silly. I'm just not tired, okay? You can ask a million more times but I'll say the same thing.”

“I... guess you don't look tired.”

 _“You_  look beat.”

“Mm. If you're sure...” 

“Goodnight.”

He lay down, frowning.

* * *

“Wilson?”

“Mm...” 

“Why don't bugs overheat?” She pointed to the beetle sitting right out in the sun that hadn't exploded or rolled over dead yet.

Wilson opened one eye that was the color of a wet pebble in the shade of the lean-to. “I don't know. I'm not an entomologist.” The eye closed. Patches of pink covered his face and patches of wet covered his shirt. Gross.

Willow slid closer to the cool embrace of the blue fire. “What kind of scientist are you then?” 

“Sort of an aspiring pharmacologist.”

“Oh, so like, medicines?”

“Mmh. Was it hot where you used to live?” he mumbled.

“Why?” She'd thought he'd gotten the clue not to ask her about that stuff.

“You're doing better'n I am... wondered if you're used to it.” 

She looked him over. Slack-mouthed and half-conscious, he looked pretty sick and brain-dead. “It's because of my fires,” she said. “Made me tough.”

“Course.” 

“You should be next to fire more often.”

“Mmh.”

There was a big nasty wet spot that covered his whole back. “Why don't you take off your shirt when you’re hot like Woodie and Wolfgang do? You’d feel better.”

Wilson frowned. “It would be obscene.”

“Is it obscene when they do it? Cuz Wolfgang does it all the time.”

He just frowned and drew away from her, curling up and withdrawing his body from view. His breathing was labored.

Wolfgang had muscles popping out all over the place. Woodie had thick tree-chopping biceps and a six-pack. Wilson had narrow, uneven shoulders and skinny little arms and legs. His waistcoat and shirt hid the shape of his body but she doubted he was hiding any six-pack.

Did guys worry about stuff like that? She'd never thought about it. But, sheesh, they had to notice when they weren't handsome just the same way girls noticed when they weren’t pretty- they had eyes too. 

Willow shrugged. “Okay. Obscene.” 

Wilson pulled farther into his hidey-hole. 

* * *

That frog needed to learn what was what!

Willow crept closer. Just as the frog started to turn, she pounced-

The axe flew out of her hand. She shook her stinging fingers.

The frog flicked its tongue back into its mouth. It cocked its head with a challenging stare.

“I'd watch out if I were you,” Wilson called. He was a few feet away getting berries or something, she hadn’t looked over to see what he was doing in a while. “It looks like a cute, innocent amphibian, but that tongue really smarts.” 

“Uh huh.” Gee. She'd had nooo idea.

She snatched up the ax and advanced once again.

Maybe the grass was slippery or maybe she just lost her balance but then she was in the pond.

If you stayed calm when you were underwater, you would float to the top. She'd heard that in Girl Scouts, so it must be true, but she couldn't breathe and it was cold and the water would snuff her out and she couldn't move.

Something grabbed her ankle, too strong for her to kick away. The circle of light above her was going farther away...

Something covered her eyes.

She twisted and kicked and tried to scream but water filled her mouth instead. It tasted like scum.

She was being extinguished.

Another something grabbed her hand. She pulled away. It grabbed her hand again. It was pulling her up, not down, so this time she grabbed back, and kicked again. With the help of the new hand pulling her up she broke free of the one on her leg. 

Out in the air, she was suddenly heavy. She spat out the water, coughed it up, breathed air in huge squeaky whoops and hugged the solid ground.

“There's something in that water.” That was Wilson. Out of breath and right in her ear. It had been his hand that pulled her up. “That was a close one. I killed the frog, by the way. Are you all right?”

She turned and tucked herself up against his body, hiding her face in his neck and clasping her hands across his back. 

He breathed harshly in her ear. He was warm and solid and the opposite of drowning. She held him tighter, gripping onto his shoulderblades.

He tensed. Oh yeah, this was a person, not an angel. And she was digging in her nails.

She pulled herself away and noticed her hands were shaking. 

He patted her arm. “Are you hurt anywhere?”

She checked herself over. “Nnnnno.”

She met his eyes. She'd sure messed that up. He would probably look startled, or disappointed.

He didn't look disappointed. “I bet,” he said, “you'd like to dry off by a fire.”

“I would.”

He started making one. He was too slow so she took over once her hands weren't shaking as much. 

Once it was warm, she took off her sodden cardigan to let it dry and spread it out on the grass. 

By the flickering light she noticed the red on her fingers. 

Wilson looked over her shoulder. “Blood. Where are you hurt?”

“Nowhere. I'm not hurt.”

“Maybe you don't feel it.”

“Maybe  _you_ don't. I think this is yours. I was touching your back. Turn around.”

“I’m not injured,” he said.

“Just let me take a look,” she said.

He turned. 

“Oh,” said Willow. “Yeah. I think this is your blood.”

“Ah...”

“Um. I should probably clean this up.” He’d brought a little canteen of cleaned-up drinking water and it was lying nearby in the grass. She moved it by the fire to boil.

“I can get it,” he said.

“You can’t even reach back here! Let me help you, okay? Take off your shirt.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You’re soaking wet and you’ll get pneumonia. And I need to look at your back. And we’re in the middle of nowhere and I’m the only one who’ll see you, geez!”

Wilson looked at her a minute, all forlorn, before sighing and starting to unbutton his waistcoat.

Wet black hair was plastered all over his chest and in a thick line going down the middle of his belly. Ew.

“What’s that?” She pointed to a long, deep groove in his skin just under the bellybutton.

“Appendectomy scar,” he said, and turned to show her his back. There was more hair back there- and wide, red slashes cut across his shoulderblades.

“You don’t feel that?” she asked.

“I’m starting to.”

The water was hot. She wet her hanky in it and started dabbing at the blood.

“Ow,” he said.

“It’s good for you,” she said. “I learned first aid in Girl Scouts. You’re in good hands!”

“Mm.”

A crescent-shaped scar arched up from under his arm on the left side, covering a big chunk of his back. She touched it lightly. “What’s this from?”

“It’s old, never mind that...”

“I was just wondering...” 

“It’s not important.”

He’d probably gotten it doing something stupid and didn’t want to say what. “Did you have a science accident or something? Was there an explosion? You can tell me.”

His back got really tense under her hand. “I had surgery.”

“Oh?” She now noticed that the whole part of his back around the scar looked a little sunken in. “What kind?”

“I don’t really want to talk about it.”

“Not even to your buddy Willow?”

He squirmed. “I... I really don’t want to talk about it!”

It must have been something  _super_ embarrassing! But what? The scar was pretty high up his back far away from any gross poop stuff. He hadn’t been embarrassed about having his appendix out. He really must have done something dumb, and hurt himself so bad that he needed surgery. The scar curved all around his side to cut into his chest a little. Maybe his whole shoulder had gotten blown off and needed to be stuck back in. Gross!

“It wasn’t anything interesting,” said Wilson, but he was too late if he wanted her not to be curious.

“Uh huh. Sure.” She pulled a handful of silk out of her backpack for bandages. “Let’s wrap you all up.”

He turned to give her a mournful look over his shoulder. She noticed the little faint white line in his scalp, covered by hair and easy to miss, that was another scar. “I never asked you about the one up here,” she said, pointing to her own forehead. 

“I don’t want to talk about that one either.”

“Did you have brain surgery?”

“No... I don’t want to talk about it.”

“You have a lot of scars! You’re like a patchwork man! Or Frankenstein!”

“It’s only three,” he said sourly. “And one on my hand. Four.”

She just had a big, blurry scar on her thigh from where part of the house had fallen on her when she was a little baby. She didn’t even remember that. “What’s the one on your hand from?”

He looked frustrated.

“Right, right,” she said. “You have secrets.” She finished tying up the bandages and pulled away, looking him over. “I think I did a pretty good job.”

“I didn’t expect to sentence you to an evening of doctoring me up when I jumped in there,” he muttered.

“Well. I would rather get stuck playing nursey for a little while than  _drown,_ so thank you anyway.”

“Anytime...”

He gave her another mournful look. She glanced over his body. Narrow shoulders, pallid skin, soft flesh without a hint of muscle tone, skinny arms, weird lopsided chest, big ugly scars, way too much hair. 

“You’re a cutie, you know,” she said.

“Me?”

“There’s no one else  _here.”_

“Thanks, I... I guess.” He looked away, blushing faintly. He  _was_ a cutie. He had a nice face. 

“But you’re cuter when you smile,” she said.

He gave her a nervous little smile.

* * *

Willow shoved the last of the food mess into the fire. To think that Wilson used to waste his time burying his trash instead of burning it. He must feel so silly now.

He didn’t look like he felt silly; he just looked sleepy. He was lying back propped up on one elbow.

How could he be sleepy? The fire was high and bright and beautiful! “Hey, hey!” she said.

“Mm?” He blinked slowly.

“Let’s play a game.”

“Now?”

“Yeah, now! Wake up, wake up!”

Wilson rubbed his eyes. “Don’t you ever get tired?”

“Let’s play truth or dare!”

“Truth or dare? Are we in the sixth form?”

“Huh?”

“You know, schoolkids...”

“Forever young!” Willow threw her hands into the air.

Wilson yawned wide enough for her to see his back teeth.

“Play with me or I’ll tell Ms. Wickerbottom about your cavities,” said Willow. “She’ll drill! Bzzzzt!”

“There is no drill. Oh, all right, fine. Who goes first?”

“I will,” she said.

“Truth.”

“No, dummy! You don’t pick for me!”

“I haven’t played this game in twenty years.”

“I pick dare! Dare!”

Wilson tipped his head back and stared up at the sky. “I dare you to... I don’t know. Stick your hand in the fire.”

“That’s a waaay too easy dare,” she said, but she did it. “Now you. Pick dare!”

“Truth.”

“Aww... Truth is for sissies.”

“Truth,” he repeated. He lay there with his hands folded over his chest. Didn’t look like he was taking this all too seriously.

“What’s your most embarrassing thing you ever did?” she asked.

“Remember the other day? Wickerbottom asked me for a torch.”

“Uh huh.”

“And I dropped it.”

“That’s it?”

He shrugged. “She died. I was mortified. Your turn.”

“Dare...” 

“Balance on one foot in the fire?”

“Your dares stink.” But she did it. “Done. Pick dare! Pick dare!”

“Truth,” he said.

“Have you ever, like, thrown up on anybody?”

“I had ‘flu and I was coerced onto a double date,” he said. “I’d drunk an entire bottle of Bismosal. It got on all three of them.”

“That is disgusting!”

He glanced over at her. “You asked. You asked for the truth.”

“Why aren’t you embarrassed?”

“Emesis is a natural bodily function. I can’t help being a human organism.” He looked thoughtful. “I wasn’t embarrassed then either. I’d _told_ them I was sick. And I didn’t even like the girl.”

“Okay. No double dates with  _you._ ”

“Thanks. Can’t stand ‘em.”

“Dare me,” she said.

“Put your face in the fire, I guess.”

“Hmmph.” She did it.

“Truth,” he said again.

He looked so unruffled. Truth or Dare was supposed to be a lot more embarrassing for the sillies who picked ‘truth’.

Hmm...

“What’s the scar on your back from?” she asked.

His eyes popped open. Aha!

“Well?” she prompted.

He looked at her with reproach.

“You coulda picked dare,” she said.

He looked away, sighing through his nose. “Right. D’you remember me saying I’d had tuberculosis?”

“Yeah, and I had you write something down about it, and we burned the note, and now it doesn’t bother you anymore.”

“I had surgery.”

“You can get surgery for that?” 

“Yes,” he said.

The few people Willow’d known with TB had just died in alleys. Wilson had had a lot more money to go to doctors with than most of the people Willow knew. Lucky him.

Lucky her, too, though, because if he’d died, she wouldn’t’ve ever gotten to know him. 

“So what’d they do?” she asked.

“Stuff. To my ribs. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“But you picked truth.”

He sighed again and closed his eyes. “Yes. I had a few ribs taken out.”

“But whyyy?”

“It collapses the lung to both rest it and wall off the infection. They tried to do that in temporary ways first but I didn’t get better, so... But I’m better now.”

“I’m glad you’re all better. That’s weird! So they put your ribs back after?”

“Ah, no, that doesn’t work.”

“Gee. You don’t have all your ribs anymore?”

“No. I should’ve kept the excised ones to give to Maxwell and watch him fail to make a woman out of them... Puncture his swelled head.”

“But your lung works now,” she said.

“Er.”

“You can’t breathe on one side?” She stared at him. “But we all make fun of you for not running fast and wheezing-”

“Like a fat dog with three legs in summer,” he said. “It was funny. I laughed too...”

“Why didn’t you  _say_ anything?”

He shook his head. 

“Don’t just shake your head!” she cried. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

He sat up, frowning. “Imagine you and I are both running from a monster. You think I’m out of shape, so you get frustrated and leave me behind. I get killed.”

“I wouldn’t do that to you!”

“Now say we’re running,” he continued, without acknowledging what she’d said. “And you feel sorry for me because I can’t get air, so you lag behind with me. We both get killed.”

“That’s stupid!”

“Not at all. It’s simple utilitarianism.”

“Geez! You’re just trying to be a martyr. Knock it off!”

He folded his arms over his chest. “I didn’t want to say anything in the first place. You badgered it out of me.”

“We were just playing a game! Hmph. I don’t want to play anymore,” she fumed. “Good night.”

“Good night.”

 

Willow woke up in the gray of early morning with her head in the ashes of the fire.

Wilson was curled up across from her, pouting in his sleep. His chest rose and fell in a lopsided way, in time with squeaky wheezes. 

Why hadn’t he ever said anything? 

She crept closer to him. His cheek looked soft and she wanted to touch it, but maybe that’d be a little creepy. 

He was stirring. She realized that watching people sleep was also creepy just as he opened his eyes and looked up at her in confusion.

“Good morning!” she said. “I woke up and you were right here, and I was just passing by you on my way to make a nice breakfast in the crock pot. Weird, huh?”

“I guess.”

“Do you want some breakfast?”

“Sure.”

She turned away from him and started poking in the fridge for something to eat. There wasn’t a whole lot. “Why didn’t you wanna tell me your lungs don’t work?”

“I told you why...”

“I don’t think that’s  _really_ why...”

“W-Willow, I don’t- want to talk about it. There’s lots of things you don’t want to talk about. We’ve known each other for two years and lived alongside each other and fought monsters but I don’t even know your last name or where you used to live.”

She turned to look at him. He looked pleading. 

“And that’s fine!” he continued hastily. “I don’t mind you liking your privacy, but can you... Can you please not ask me these things when I ask you not to?”

“Ummm. Okay,” she said. “Sorry...”

“Great! Thanks!”

Her face felt warm. “I never thought about it like that.”

“That’s settled,” he said.

She could say a lot of things here, like that she didn’t know her last name. Or that she hadn’t lived anywhere in particular before. 

Or she could let it go.

She let it go.


	39. You Like Me Lots And We Are "Friends"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is in continuity with other stories. 
> 
> I used 'it' instead of 'them' for WX-78 because the plural pronoun got very confusing in the prose very quickly and I am not skilled enough to handle that. 'It' was always WX-78's pronoun in single player and still is to my knowledge, so here we are.

“CHILD.”

Webber raised his head and found WX-78 standing there very close.

“Oh, good morning,” he said. “We’re just making-”

“YOU HAVE BEEN SELECTED,” said the robot, who had a habit of interrupting. “COME WITH ME RIGHT NOW.”

Webber wasn’t doing anything important, just making mud pies, so he shrugged and said “Okay.”

The three of them- Webber, his other half, and WX-78- headed down the path, with the robot keeping a close eye on their surroundings. It always seemed to expect something to sneak up on it.

“What are we going to do for you today?” Webber asked. The answer was usually ‘move some spiders around’.

“I WILL INSTRUCT YOU UPON ARRIVAL.”

“Okay.” Probably move spiders.

They arrived in a meadow with a lot of beehives and butterflies fluttering about. “How nice!” said Webber.

WX-78 handed Webber four bug nets. Webber counted them again: four. “We think you gave us an extr-”

“CATCH ALL OF THEM.”

“Huh?”

WX-78 pointed into the meadow. “CATCH ALL OF THE INSECTS.”

“Not all of-”

“ALL OF THEM. I AM PROGRAMMED TO SPEAK CLEARLY AND ENUNCIATE.”

Oh! Miss Wicker had been talking about setting up a bee farm. She must have asked WX-78 to start on it.

Webber starting catching bees while WX-78 attacked the hives and took the honeycombs. A while later all of the honeycombs and bees were in WX-78’s backpack, along with a lot of butterflies to plant into flowers.

WX-78 picked up the backpack and started walking away. When Webber followed, it turned and said: “DO NOT FOLLOW.”

Okay.

When Webber got back to the meadow, Wolfgang was charging in. He screeched to a halt and looked around. Mr. Higgsbury was sitting on his shoulder, looking very secure and comfy.

“Where is bees?” Wolfgang asked, looking around.

Mr. Higgsbury was holding a piece of paper. He looked at it now and said: “They __should__ be here. Don’t tell me the darn things migrated.” He looked up. “Webber!” He waved.

“Hello, Mr. Higgsbury, Mr. Wolfgang,” said Webber. “WX-78 and I just got all the bees already. Sorry you didn’t know!”

“Hmm,” said Mr. Higgsbury. “I suppose our plans have changed. What’re you up to, Webber? Anything you need help with?”

“We’re not doing anything, really,” said Webber.

“Hm,” said Mr. Higgsbury. He looked down at the ground, then up at Wolfgang, then at Webber. “Perhaps we should give you a turn.”

“Wolfgang has TWO mighty shoulders!” Without putting Mr. Higgsbury down on the ground, Wolfgang scooped up Webber and put him on his other shoulder. Mr. Wolfgang sure was tall! Webber could see forever from up here!

Mr. Wolfgang started taking them back to camp.

-

“Why, hello, dear Webber,” Miss Wickerbottom said to Wolfgang’s left shoulder. To his right shoulder she said: “Did you relocate the beehives?”

“According to young Webber, the robot beat us to it,” said Mr. Higgsbury. He slipped down to the ground. “You might have told us you’d assigned it that job before we went out…”

“I did not assign it,” said Miss Wickerbottom.

“WX-78 probably decided to do it because it wants to help us and it didn’t ask first because it’s shy,” Webber guessed.

Mr. Higgsbury cleared his throat. “Sure.”

“Hmm.” Miss Wickerbottom looked serene. “I shall speak to it later. In the meantime, you and Mr. Wolfgang might do a little mining.”

Mr. Higgsbury looked a little strained. “Yes, of course. You don’t need anything crafted, or…”

“We desperately need rocks.”

“Right. Well, whatever we need…”

“Wolfgang will smash rocks with fists!” Wolfgang boomed.

Mr. Higgsbury looked up at him. “Oh, we have plenty of pickaxes.”

“We can help!” Webber said.

Miss Wickerbottom turned to him, shaking her head. “Not you, young arachnid. To your lessons.”

Mr. Higgsbury reached up and tugged at Mr. Wolfgang’s unitard. “Let’s go, friend.”

Mr. Wolfgang picked up Mr. Higgsbury and put him on his shoulder and they started walking away.

“It’s nice of Mr. Wolfgang to give everyone rides, isn’t it?” Webber said.

“Mm. Yes,” said Miss Wickerbottom. “Although sometimes I wish he would ask one’s permission first. Now, your sums, dear.”

Aw. Playing with rocks and getting rides from Mr. Wolfgang sounded more fun. But Miss Wickerbottom was in charge, so it was time for school now.

 

****Later** **

 

“YOU. BOY.”

Webber looked up. His head-legs twitched and pawed at the air.

WX-78 scowled at him. “WHY DO YOU TOUCH THAT HORRIBLE SUBSTANCE.”

Webber looked down at the toy boat bobbing on the surface of the water. “It’s only bad for us if we drink it without cleaning it first or fall in and get drowned by the giant hands that live inside. Miss Wickerbottom said.”

WX-78 peered at the surface of the water. “VILE.”

“It is a little bit stinky.”

“COME AWAY FROM THERE. I HAVE WORK TO DO.”

“Um,” said Webber. “Is it bad?”

“NO.”

Webber shrugged.

The robot led Webber down the path a way before stopping. “WHAT YOU ARE ABOUT TO SEE IS SECRET,” it said.

“Okay.”

“IF YOU REVEAL MY SECRET I WILL PUT OUT YOUR EYES. ALL OF THEM.”

“Ouch!” It was a joke, of course, but that was a scary thought!

“DON’T SAY A WORD,” said WX-78. It led Webber through some thick trees.

They headed into the swamp, deeper in even than Webber liked to go. Webber began to notice a loud buzzing sound.

WX-78 led him to rows and rows of bee boxes. “YOU WILL HARVEST THESE,” it said, “AND GIVE ME THE HONEY.”

About four bee boxes in, Webber noticed WX-78 was not harvesting anything. It was just sitting and watching.

Gee. It must be tired! Did robots get tired? They must get tired.

Webber lost count of how many boxes there were total. He was out of breath when he lugged the huge vat of honey over to WX-78.

“DO YOU THINK,” said WX-78, “THERE ARE ENOUGH BEES HERE TO KILL THE STRONGMAN?”

“Why would you want to kill Mr. Wolfgang?!”

“I DO NOT,” said the robot. “HE IS A CONVENIENT UNIT OF MEASUREMENT.”

“Oh, okay! Well, I don’t measure things by whether they can kill our friends but… there’s enough bees to kill a whole pack of hounds!”

WX-78 tapped its fingertips together with a soft mental clinking sound. “I WILL DISCOVER HOW TO CONTROL THE BEES.”

“Oh my!”

“HOW DO YOU CONTROL THE SPIDERS?”

“Um, we don’t! They just like us, and they like it when we feed them, so they help us…”

“THAT IS USELESS TO ME,” said WX-78.

“Sorry…”

WX-78 made a rude sound. “YOU HAVE DONE YOUR ‘BEST’.” It rooted around in the backpack sitting at its side. “YOU HAVE EARNED ONE (1) TAFFY.”

“Oh! Thanks!”

“NOW GO AND TELL NO ONE,” said WX-78.

“Okay!” Webber wondered if maybe he should tell Miss Wickerbottom, but… he’d promised not to. “Have a good day.”

“I WILL HAVE A VERY EVIL DAY,” said WX-78.

“Whatever you like.”

 

****Much Later** **

 

Webber woke up with WX-78 staring into his face.

“Aaah!”

“MY HONEY HAS BEEN STOLEN,” it said. Before Webber could answer, one of his friends jumped up onto WX-78’s head. “AAAA-”

Webber wrestled his hissing friend’s furry body down off of the robot.

“YOU ATTACK ME,” said WX-78.

“You woke him up and he’s upset!” Webber pointed out, keeping a tight hold on his naughty friend.

“YOU TOOK MY HONEY,” said WX-78.

“We did not!”

“THERE IS SOME MISSING.”

“We don’t steal! Look in our backpack if you want!”

“YOU ALREADY ATE IT,” said the robot.

“Nuh-uh!” Webber opened his mouth wide. WX-78 peered in.

“HMPH,” it said.

“Maybe the bees took some of the honey back,” Webber said.

“I WILL BERATE THE BEES.” WX-78 turned and started walking away.

“Wait!”

“WHAT.”

“Mr. Higgsbury has been gone for a while. Have you seen him?”

“WHY WOULD I SEE HIM.”

“We don’t see you for a long time sometimes,” said Webber. “We thought maybe you and him were at the same place.”

“I WOULD NOT ALLOW THAT,” said WX.

“Okay. We just wondered.”

WX paused a moment and then said quickly: “I HOPE HE NEVER COMES BACK. I HATE HIM.”

“Oh! He’s a little rude sometimes but he doesn’t mean it-”

“HE IS TERRIBLE AND IT WOULD BE NICE IF HE WAS DEAD FOREVER,” WX-78 said.

Gee… that had to be a joke, right? Although Webber couldn’t see why it was funny.

“U-um, there was something else,” said Webber.

“WHAT ELSE?”

“You have a lot of bees and we haven’t been able to have enough for everyone,” said Webber. “So we thought perhaps you could share?”

“YOU DID STEAL IT,” said WX-78.

“No… we just think everyone could use some. Why don’t you like to share?”

“BECAUSE YOU ARE ALL AWFUL.”

Webber had never been spoken to like that. He was very quiet.

“I WISH __ALL__ OF THE HUMANS WOULD GO AWAY.” And with that, WX-78 left.

 

****Shortly After That** **

 

“Where did you get that, dear?”

Webber looked up from his sums. He could not see what was happening because Miss Wickerbottom and Miss Willow were both behind the wall, but he smelled something powerfully sweet.

“I’m making cookies,” Willow said. “He’ll smell them and come back.”

Webber looked over at Wendy.

“He cannot return from where he’s gone,” said Wendy.

“Where’s he gone?” Webber asked.

“Death,” said Wendy, eyes wide.

“Oh… why hasn’t he come back to a statue, then?”

“I know not. We know not, don’t we, Abigail?”

Abigail floated around by Wendy’s shoulder, saying nothing.

“Where did you get enough honey to make so many cookies, dear?” Wickerbottom was asking.

Honey?

“He can’t be dead cuz he’d’ve come back,” said Willow, “so he must be lost and he will come back when he smells the cookies.”

“But where did you get-”

“I found it,” Willow snapped.

Uh-oh! What if she’d taken it from WX-78? Then the robot would be awful mad. Would it do something bad?

Wendy set her slate down. “I’ve finished.”

Webber was pretty far from being finished. “That was fast!”

“Numbers suit me,” said Wendy. “They are cold and dead. I must away now, Webber.”

“But Miss Wickerbottom said not to go anyplace…”

“She said it was quite alright. I wouldn’t go, otherwise. We’re good girls, aren’t we, Abigail?”

“Oh, alright,” said Webber. “We want to go with you, but we must finish…”

Before he could get to what he was going to say, which was that he could finish faster if Wendy helped him, she said: “Very well,” and jumped up to leave. Okay then.

Webber bent his head over the math.

“I hate him!” Willow yelled, making Webber jump. “How can he just leave? Ugh! If he comes back, he’s not gettin’ a cookie.”

Something slammed. Wickerbottom came in shaking her head. She gasped. “Where is Wendy?”

“She… she said you said she could go.”

“Oh, dear,” said Miss Wickerbottom, and began to look around the camp. She looked down at Wendy’s slate. “She didn’t even finish her sums! Tsk!”

“She said she did…”

“TSK!”

“Miss Wicker?”

“Yes, dear?” she said.

“Why would… Willow say she hates Mr. Higgsbury? They’re friends, aren’t they?” Webber looked down at his slate. He didn’t like fighting and people hating each other.

“She didn’t mean that, Webber. They _ _are__  friends. She is very upset that she is gone and saying things she doesn’t quite mean.”

“Why do people lie? Wendy lied.”

“Willow is not lying,” said Miss Wickerbottom. “She is only confused and upset. I believe it frightens her to care about someone so much. Do you understand?”

“No, but we’re glad she doesn’t really hate anyone,” said Webber.

“Wendy, on the other hand, will need a talking-to. Which way did she go?”

Wendy would get in trouble… but she shouldn’t do dangerous things. Webber pointed out the big door. Miss Wickerbottom nodded and headed away.

 

****A Few Days Later** **

 

WX-78 was staring at the sign by the big door.

“HAIL! Well met!” Wigfrid called.

Webber turned to her. “May we go talk to them in private, please?”

“Certainly,” said Wigfrid. She was really nice for offering to take Webber places. Even if she was loud and kind of stinky. Miss Wickerbottom didn’t want Webber going anywhere alone anymore, so if no one took him places he was stuck in camp.

“CHILD,” said WX-78 as Webber approached.

Webber needed to tell it about Willow stealing that honey. At least, he thought he needed to. WX-78 was being very selfish by keeping all those bees and all their honey… but maybe it was just upset. Everyone was upset and scared. Even if WX-78 really didn’t care about Mr. Higgsbury or want him back safe like Webber did, it must be scared because it wasn’t normal for someone to disappear forever on a small island with only a few people and no one knew if maybe it could happen to everyone else as well.

Webber should tell… even if WX-78 was being unfair, Miss Willow shouldn’t steal.

Before he could think of how to approach the subject of the honey, WX-78 said: “THIS SIGN HAS BEEN VANDALIZED.”

The sign was one that had been posted by Miss Wickerbottom. It read __Please avoid this location for your own safety.__

WX-78 pointed to the side of the stick holding the sign up. __LONG LIVE THE KING__ was scratched into it. Huh.

WX-78 pointed to the fence. “THERE IS A GAP.”

Oh, so there was. Miss Wickerbottom had fenced off the scary door a long time ago, saying that it must be a trap. Webber hadn’t been back since, at least not for long, and had never noticed the gap in the corner of the fence. “We should tell Miss Wickerbottom.”

“YOU COULD FIT THROUGH THERE,” said WX-78.

“Miss Wickerbottom wouldn’t like us to go through her fence…” It occurred to him that Wendy could probably also fit. Wendy liked scary things. Maybe she was playing by the door when she shouldn’t! He should tell Miss Wickerbottom about that too.

“THE SCIENTIST WAS A RUNT,” said WX-78. “HE COULD FIT. THAT DOOR IS VERY POWERFUL. MAYBE HE WENT IN TO STEAL THE POWER AND GOT STUCK AND IS IN THERE DECOMPOSING. GOOD.”

“Um.” They would definitely smell that if it were true and all Webber could smell was the pine trees and warm metal. Also Wigfrid. “What will you do when you find out who took your honey?”

“I WILL KILL THEM,” said WX-78.

“But that’s mean!” Webber blurted. “Why are you so mean? We won’t keep helping you anymore if you’re so mean!”

WX-78 just looked at him.

“We know who took your honey,” said Webber, “and it wasn’t us, but we don’t want you to kill her so we-”

“THE VIKING,” said WX-78.

“No!”

“THE GIRL-CHILD.”  
”No!”

“THE WICKERBOTTOM?” It sounded incredulous.

Webber frowned deeply. He was being tricked into saying things he didn’t want to say.

“OH,” said WX-78. “IT WAS THE FIRESTARTER. WELL I DON’T CARE ENOUGH TO KILL HER.” It looked away.

“Good. I guess. You’re mean.” Webber turned aside.

“I LIKE TO BE MEAN.”  
”I don’t like it!”

“BUT YOU LIKE ME,” said WX-78.

Webber was unwilling to tell anyone right to their face that he didn’t like them. He bit his lip. “I- I won’t like you if you’re mean.”

“YOU WILL, YOU LIKE ME,” said the robot.

“I don’t like mean people!”

“BUT YOU LIKE ME,” said the robot. It studied Webber. “YOU LIKE ME LOTS AND WE ARE ‘FRIENDS’,” it said.

Webber looked down and didn’t say anything.

Suddenly Wigfrid was there. “The young arachnid is distressed!”

“I’m fine but I want to leave now,” said Webber.

“Shall I battle this armored wretch?”

“No, we just would like to leave now,” he said.

They walked away. WX-78 watched them go. It seemed, for once, not to know what to say.

 

****Quite A Bit After That** **

 

“I HAVE FOUND THE SCIENTIST.”

Webber rubbed his eyes. “Oh, we’ve already found him, but thanks-”

“I FOUND HIM WHERE HE OUGHT NOT TO BE,” said WX-78.

Webber heard someone breathing. He turned on the lantern. WX-78 was holding a flushed and disgruntled-looking Mr. Higgsbury by the ear.

“Oh!” said Webber.

“I DID NOT KILL HIM. YOU OWE ME NOW.” WX-78 pushed him towards Webber. Mr. Higgsbury stumbled and turned towards the robot with a scowl. “NEXT TIME,” said the robot, “I WILL NOT BE SO LENIENT.”

“Are you all right?!” Webber asked. He smelled blood.

“NO, I AM VERY MAD THAT I HAD TO SPARE THIS STUPID HUMAN. THIS IS A SPECIAL FAVOR. I AM LEAVING.”

“Wait!”

WX-78 was already leaving and clearly didn’t want to wait.

“Are you all right?” Webber said to Mr. Higgsbury.

He nodded.

“You’re bleeding?!”

He swallowed and said: “I’m fine, Webber.”

“Did WX-78 hurt you, Mr. Higgsbury?”

“No, it didn’t hurt me, Webber.” His voice sounded scratchy and weak. “Nobody did, I… well. It was an experiment. It didn’t work out so well. Are your friends around?”

Webber looked around the spider nest. “They are all out hunting, but perhaps you should go home. We can walk you back to camp, if you like.”

“I have a torch, but thank you.”

Webber followed him onto the path anyway

“You seem to have some power over that robot,” Mr. Higgsbury said.

“Oh, er… not really. Why is it so mean?”

“It’s a machine, Webber. I doubt it was programmed with ethics. It could actually be quite dangerous.”

“Sometimes friends can be scary,” said Webber. “It doesn’t mean they’re bad. Miss Willow stole its honey, so it’s probably still mad. That’s normal, isn’t it?”

“Hm,” said Mr. Higgsbury. “Just be careful, that’s all.” He rubbed his chin. “If you ask me it needs a bit of tweaking, that machine.”

Mr. Higgsbury could look very cold and calculating. He could remind Webber of WX-78.

“Maybe it has a reason not to trust people,” said Webber. “Mr. Higgsbury, why did you go in that door?”

He jumped guiltily. “What? It was an experiment, Webber. It failed. I was trying to help, but it didn’t work.”

“Okay.”

There was a light up ahead. Willow came running up. “WHERE DID YOU GO?” She grabbed Mr. Higgsbury by the shoulders. “Don’t __ever__ go away __again!”__

“S-sorry, I was trying to-”

“You make me so mad! Why did you leave again?!”

“I just, er…”

Willow hugged him. That didn’t seem like something someone who was mad would do.

Mr. Higgsbury froze in her arms, confused. Willow turned and pressed her lips to his cheek.

Webber did not think this part was any of his business, so he left.

 

****Soon After** **

 

WX-78 was sitting in its camp watching the fire when Webber walked up.

WX-78 tilted its head. “YOU ARE NOT SUPPOSED TO KNOW WHERE I LIVE.”

“Um. Sorry. Just wanted to say…” Webber took a deep breath. “People will like you if you try to help…”

“I DO NOT CARE IF THEY LIKE ME.”

“Do you care if I like you?”

“YOU DO LIKE ME.”

Webber looked down.

“YOU DO LIKE ME,” WX-78 repeated.

“Everyone would like you if you were nice…”

“I DO NOT CARE.”

“We all like each other because we help each other… we like Mr. Higgsbury and were sad when he was gone because he tries very hard to help everyone even though he doesn’t always quite manage it,” said Webber. “People only want you to __want__  to help. You just have to try.”

“I WANT TO BE AS LITTLE LIKE HIM AS POSSIBLE,” said WX-78.

“All right,” Webber said quietly, and he turned to go.

“WAIT. I HAVE DECIDED TO GIVE YOU SOME HONEY BECAUSE YOU ARE MY MINION AND WILL STAY BEHOLDEN TO ME.”

Webber looked back at it. WX-78 held out a rather large jar of honey.

“Wow! That’s a lot,” said Webber.

“I EXPECTED YOU TO FOOLISHLY SHARE IT WITH YOUR HORRIBLE FLESHLING FRIENDS. THERE IS EXTRA.”

“You’re sharing your honey with everyone?”

“NO. IT IS A BRIBE. FOR YOU. AND YOU MIGHT SHARE IT BECAUSE YOU ARE STUPID.”

Webber looked back at WX-78’s expressionless eyes.

Miss Wickerbottom had said some people were afraid of caring about others. Like Miss Willow, who could scream at someone and say she hated him and then hug him and kiss him.

He took the honey. The vat was really heavy. There was definitely enough here for everybody. “Thank you, WX-78.”

“I AM GENEROUS.” WX-78 nodded and said: “GO AWAY.”

“Okay.”

Maybe Webber didn’t have to understand. Maybe he could just be happy that he wasn’t afraid of loving people.


	40. Fun Times With Wigfrid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wrote this mostly to explore wigfrid's character through the nice comfy POV of a character i'm more used to writing for

Wilson had of course been summarily banned from helping in the infirmary tent. But every time he passed by it, he could not help but feel sort of compelled to see how everyone was doing, and while he would have to take it to his grave he knew he wasn’t _really_ at fault for the incident that had gotten him banned…

And the tent was so conveniently located by the main path, and at the moment he had nothing pressing to do.

Unfortunately Wickerbottom was on duty today. She turned towards him the moment he poked his head in. “Are you unwell or inquiring after someone’s whereabouts, Mr. Higgsbury?”

“Er,” he said. He could see at once that the only other people in the tent were Wendy and Wes. Wendy was sitting in her usual spot by the wall, waiting for an assignment. Wes was in a bed with his leg propped up. “I was just asking after Wes.”

“Were you?” Wickerbottom asked. “I was not aware that you and young Wes were such good friends.”

Wilson in fact had almost no relationship with Wes. “I just wondered if he was, er, alright.”

“He’s only resting his leg. He will be good as new in a day or so. There is no need to stay any longer. I’m certain you’re very busy.”

Wes did in fact look as if he was doing just fine. He waved and smiled.

Wilson waved back. “I guess I should get going…”

“Indeed.”

He exited the tent, sighing to himself. Clearly they were not in need of him. To tell the truth, he was not really qualified to doctor anyone, nor did he enjoy trying, but he was the only one of them with any amount of formal training and it seemed like he should be helping, was all…

Pounding footsteps up the path. A burst of red hair appeared over the horizon.

“Good day to you, Wi-”

Wigfrid burst past him and into the tent before he could finish, startling the rest of the word away from his mouth. Even in the midst of battle frenzy Wigfrid always had time to holler some form of greeting at him. He turned and followed her. “Wigfrid? What’s wrong?”

He found her at Wes’ bedside, standing with her hands balled into fists and a look of anguish on her face. Wickerbottom was standing next to her with her hand on Wigfrid’s shoulder.

But Wigfrid was always stern or smiling. She had incredible self-control. “Wigfrid?!”

“This does not concern you.” Wendy’s voice He looked down to see glacial blue eyes staring up at him. At once in his mind those eyes were taking in the sight of him on that wretched throne and calmly deciding to use the divining rod to unlock a fate worse than death…

Wilson sure would like to look away but that seemed like a rotten thing to do to her. Instead he held her gaze and politely said: “Is there anything I could do to help?”

“Of course not,” said Wendy.

Wickerbottom raised her head. “Mr. Higgsbury! You didn’t leave, I see.”

“I was going t-”

“My silent, fallen comrade!” Wigfrid yelled. “Your injury is my doing. I must avenge you!”

Wes looked at her adoringly and made dismissive gestures.

“No, I must!” Wigfrid cried.

“The Varg really ought to be dealt with in the interest of all of our safety regardless,” said Wickerbottom. She turned to Wigfrid. “Wes is resting comfortably and will heal. You needn’t torment yourself, dear. It was an accident.”

“I go to vanquish the beast,” said Wigfrid, taking a few steps. She stopped, drooped, and muttered: “…alone.”

With that she left as Wes blew her kisses.

“Poor girl,” Wilson said.

He noticed Wickerbottom viewing him rather intently.

“Yes, yes,” he said. “I was just going.”

“Mr. Higgsbury, it occurs to me that Saturday is your ‘free day’.”

‘Saturday’ sounded like a thing so far removed from his current life that he almost asked what it was. He also was not aware that he __had__ a free day.

“You do not have any pressing errands, do you?” she asked.

“I was going to re-tune the- are you saying you’ll have me back?!”

“Er, no. No, dear. I was merely wondering if you might go with Wigfrid to help her with the Varg.”

“Me!” He almost laughed but she looked serious. “Well, I think she’d rather have a slightly sharpened stick.”

Wickerbottom cleared her throat. Wilson realized that Wigfrid’s usual companion was Wes, which would seem to indicate that… well, he was probably only there for companionship. “I mean, er,” he said, “we don’t really… I’m happy to go if you think she’d want me around, but I’m not a very good substitute! We don’t talk much…”

Of course, she and Wes did not talk at all.

Wes caught his eye then and made pleading motions.

“I should… go with her?” Wilson guessed. Wes nodded. “Ah. If you say so. I suppose I wasn’t planning anything today that can’t wait…”

“You’ll have to leave now to catch up with her, dear,” said Wickerbottom.

Wigfrid was a fast walker and had a longer stride than Wilson. He had to jog a little to catch up with her and was out of breath by the time that he did.

“Yes, scribe,” she said without looking around.

“I… hah…” He wheezed.

“Does danger threaten?”

“No.” She would no doubt just be embarrassed and send him away if he out and said he was here to keep her company. She might send him away anyway. “Er, I was wondering if I might go with you? To learn how to fight, I suppose.” In his few interactions with Wigfrid she had mostly said she was concerned about his poor fighting skills.

“I am not giving lessons today.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean you should __teach__ me, I just thought I could observe. And maybe I can help?”

“If you wish,” said Wigfrid.

“I can’t match you in physical strength, but I can… hand you things. Distract it. Be bait.”

“I will be able to handle this myself, scribe. You ought to observe and learn! Then perhaps you can be of more aid to your companions… and they won’t fall in battle.” She sighed.

“Aw, whatever happened to Wes I’m sure it wasn’t your fault.”

“Hrmh.”

“You’re very capable.”

“We are approaching the beast. You must don your armor!”

Wilson quickly put on his football helmet.

A panting, snuffling hound came around the bend. Wilson took out his trusty tentacle spike but the hound had already been dispatched by Wigfrid.

The alpha was a ways back, a giant heaving fur shape with teeth. Wilson knew full well that it was nigh-impossible to really die here, and not only that, there were umpteen million fates worse than death. And yet he could not deny feeling a little frisson of fear when faced with something that could tear him to pieces.

Wigfrid seemed to have no such feeling. She was running full tilt towards the alpha. Wilson followed her.

More of the pack were coming. He stopped and turned towards them with his spear raised.

Two came at him. One was red and glowing. He dodged its bite and smacked it two good ones to the head. It exploded into fire. The other hound lunged for his leg. Wilson darted around it and veered near to the fire with the animal close on his heels. He was rewarded with a yelp and a smell of burning fur. Distracted by pain, the hound was easy to finish off.

He turned back towards the Varg in time to see it go crashing down, dead. Wigfrid stood atop its carcass, panting and bloodied. He had never seen her look so tired.

He went towards her and as he did so there was an overwhelming sense of __something__ moving from one place to another. Wigfrid stood up tall, her eyes brightening, fresh bloodied wounds on her body instantly drying and closing.

Wilson’s jaw dropped.

Wigfrid pointed at the dead alpha with her spear. “This foe has fought well. Victory is sweet!”

Before Wilson could think of anything to say to that, he heard more panting and pounding paws. One straggling member of the pack hadn’t gotten the memo that its leader was dead. He raised his weapon, but Wigfrid jumped in front of him and killed the thing in a few whacks before he could do anything.

Wilson lowered the tentacle spike. “Well, ah… that was impressive.”

“Thank you for your aid, scribe.”

“It was nothing. Really.” He started cleaning the hound fur and blood off of the end of the spike by wiping it on the ground.

“I suppose now you have duties to attend to,” she said, looking at him oddly.

It sort of seemed like she just might want him to stick around but was too polite to say so. It wasn’t like she had Wes back, or anything.

“I don’t have anything too urgent to do if you’d like help butchering these,” he said, watching her face. She looked pleased. Wickerbottom had been right, she was lonely enough without Wes to accept Wilson’s company. Obviously Wilson and Wes were not interchangeable, Wigfrid must simply be very gregarious and not fond of solitude. He had rarely seen her alone, come to think of it.

“I’ll start skinning the small ones, then,” he said.

He ought to be used to the smell of singed hound but it still burned in the back of his throat as he rummaged through the scorched, split corpse of the fire one. Where its heart ought to be was a beautiful red gem. He pulled it out and admired the little sparks that exploded inside as the light touched it.

He’d killed this one himself so Wigfrid oughtn’t to mind him taking the gem. He tucked it into his pocket and began carving up the meat. “Do you want the meat? We have plenty at the main camp.”

“I will accept the meat you have slain. Thank you.”

It wasn’t a big deal or anything… Wilson hated the taste of monster meat even in meatballs. “Very well.”

He looked up and noticed Wigfrid was taking pelts. Hound fur was rough and scratchy and stinky. As far as Wilson knew no one else used it. There was always plenty of beefalo wool.

If she wanted it, great! Less mess to haul to a cliff and dump into the ocean. He set to skinning.

“I shall take the spoils of battle to my camp,” said Wigfrid, “before they attract more beasts.”

“I can help carry the things for you,” said Wilson. “I’m sure you’re strong enough to carry it all but it won’t all fit in your arms!”

She nodded. “I believe I could make it to fit, but if you would like to assist!”

“I live to serve.” Wilson packed the bundles of meat into his backpack while she gathered the pelts and strapped them to her back.

That done, Wigfrid scooped up all the hound skeletons and seemed to be getting ready to drag them by the tail. “We shall be off!” she announced, and she charged down the trail. Wilson followed.

He seemed to be carrying a much lighter load than she was. Clearly she could handle it if her sprightly pace and large biceps were any indication, yet there was still a small nagging in the back of Wilson’s mind that he ought to be taking care of the heavier potion- he was a man.

This was of course patently ridiculous. He would ignore it.

The only sounds were her heavy footfalls and his own slightly ragged breathing. This was why he never hung out with Wigfrid, he didn’t know what to say to her.

“The weather’s been very fine, hasn’t it?”

“Good for battle!” she said.

“Indeed, yes.” And with that he had just more or less exhausted his small talk ideas.

He noticed Wigfrid passing very close to one of the sea cliffs. She did not throw in the carcasses.

“Er, are you keeping those?” he asked.

“They are good bait for other hunts!”

“You __bait__ things that are large enough to eat hounds?!”

“They are the only foes worthy!” She sounded surprised that this was even an issue.

“I… I see.” He shifted his heavy backpack. It was making his shoulder ache. Wigfrid showed no signs of fatigue. He had to nearly jog to make his stumpy little legs keep up with her strides.

Maybe he’d ask Wolfgang about strength training later.

They had come to a distant corner of the prairie where Wilson never went. They were coming closer to a collection of mounds and sticks. There was a bit of an… odor.

Wigfrid appeared to have a carcass pile out back, that she now added the hounds to. Wilson stayed back and took in the sight- a tent thing made entirely of hides and sticks. The walls and ceiling were a single, very large bearger pelt. The floor was covered in furs from hound, beefalo and other things he didn’t even recognize, spread out as rugs or rolled up as cushions.

“This is a very hunterly abode,” he said.

“Thank you!”

He put the meat away in her ice box with all the other meat while she arranged the furs to dry. Having done that she sat down on one of the furball chairs and watched him.

He was wondering if he ought to leave when she said: “The old meats must be dried by now.”

He noticed behind her a set of about fifteen or twenty drying racks, all ready for harvest and replacement. “Does Wes usually help you with that?”

“He does. But I can certainly handle it myself!”

“I don’t have anywhere I need to be. These go in the ice box?”

“Yes!”

Wilson began to take down meat from the racks. Wigfrid joined them. Even between the two of them the task of removing all of the meat and hanging new meat took longer than killing the Varg had.

Wigfrid looked through the fridge. “This beast is going stale. It ought to be cooked. Feast with me, scribe!”  
”Me?”

“Even with my hearty warrior’s appetite I will not be able to consume the whole of this stale beast!”

“I might have a bit of room.” He was ravenous.

She started cooking. Wilson shifted from foot to foot. There was only one cooking pot so he couldn’t really help.

He was tired from the day’s efforts- though they must seem like nothing to Wigfird. He wasn’t sure if he was invited to take a chair so he sat on the ground. Wigfrid was piling heaps of meat onto a big platter thing. The walls and ceiling were, he realized, actually of two pelts, bearger on the outside and deerclops on the inside. Furry outside AND in. Had she moved them here herself? She must __really__ be strong.

In the corners he saw balloons floating, bobbing against the ceiling. Wes’s addition, no doubt. Wilson had not been able to see them before after entering the tent’s dim interior from the bright sun outside.

He ought to say something, he was being rude just sitting here. “Do you do this often?”

“I eat every day!”

“I meant… this much food.”

“Every evening Wes and I meat feast together.”

“Oh, I see.” Why was Wes so thin, then?

Wigfrid turned and peered at him. “Do you eat… plants?”

“Not if I can avoid it.”

“Good man!” She clapped him on the back.

“Oof!”

“Have I harmed you?”

“Uh! Just- very slightly.” He tried to smile.

“Poor soul! I must toughen you up.” She clapped him on the back __again.__ “This will help."

She retrieved a rough stone flask of some kind from among the skins and poured it into a pair of wooden cups. Some kind of red liquid. Ah…

He began to frantically search for a polite way to tell her he wasn’t going to drink blood- although maybe he should just do it, it wouldn’t kill him- it would be rude to say no- and then she handed him the cup and he caught a whiff of something fermented. “Wigfrid, is this… alcoholic?”

“Indeed! Thou, practitioner of the apothecary’s art… thou hast never made wine?”

“Not… as of yet.” He sipped it and found it to be quite strong. “It’s good!” He thought it was, anyway. He’d never sampled much wine, being more of a whiskey person. “This is very generous.”

She was also laying out a massive amount of food. “I share the gods’ bounty with my companions. The silent one and the strong one feast with me often…”

Wolfgang was… elsewhere. Embroiled in a hell that __someone__ had gone and opened up for a game of musical chairs. Where Maxwell should be- well, no. Where Wilson ought to be.

Wilson took a deep gulp of the wine. It burned his mouth and throat in a way that was sort of painful but oddly pleasant.

“The firestarter feasts with me often as well,” said Wigfrid. “She never stays long, the blessed of Loge. She is as a speck of ash dancing on the wind.”

“She never told me you had wine, the little scamp.”

Wigfrid took a huge bite of a turkey leg. “She alights with you more often than most, does she not?”

Wilson picked up a kebab and nibbled at it. “I think she feels responsible for me.” The mention of Willow had jogged his memory. He took out the red gem he’d lifted off the dead hound. “You don’t mind if I do a bit of crafting, do you?”

“Not at all!”

He had a nearly broken spear and some nightmare fuel on him, fortunately. He took both out and began massaging the fuel into the spear like oil, in between bites of meat.

Wigfrid viewed him with her head cocked. “What are you doing, friend?”

“Making a fire staff.” He twisted the gem carefully onto the edge of the spear. It joined with the blade like two drops of water coming together, an impossible thing that always made him shudder a bit.

“Ah! Your method is passing strange.”

“Mm? There’s other ways to do this?”

“Indeed! Behold!” She stood up and retrieved her own spear, fuel and gem from her chests. She laid the fuel and the gem out on the ground and hefted the spear over her head.

“Hah!”

She plunged the spear into the nightmare fuel. It disappeared into the blade. Wigfrid pulled back the spear, again cried-

“Hah!”

-and plunged it into the gem.

“It’s much faster,” she said. “And more befitting of the spear.”

Wilson blinked and clapped politely because it seemed the right thing to do for some reason. He would have to note that method down later…

Wigfrid bowed solemnly and sat down to continue chewing on animal flesh.

Wilson found that his cup was empty. Wigfrid refilled it without a word.

“Ah, thank you!”

“It is Wes’ favorite drink. With his aid we produce great stores of it every year.”

“I never knew.”

She winked. “You have never asked, scribe!”

He sipped about half of the new cup and said: “Why do you call me scribe?” Wilson was many things, primarily a scientist, but he’d never thought of himself as any sort of writer.

She took his hand in hers and turned it over to show him the charcoal smears on his own palm. “Is this not the hand of a scribe?” She let go.

“I guess,” he said. His cheeks and ears were warm. Either the casual contact was a little embarrassing or perhaps he’d had enough to drink. He reluctantly set the cup down and picked up a pork chop.

“What epic tale are you writing?” she asked.

“Me? I’m not a novelist. I write down things that happen. Chronicling the nightmares of the nightmare world. Someday we’ll all get out of here and I’ll do my darndest to forget this awful place and its horrible illogic, but for the good of mankind I must not. Can’t escape everything.”

“Aha! The wine has loosened thy stubborn tongue.”

“Not at all. Sober as a judge. So, I’ve never asked. How did you get here?”  
She spread her hands apart in an easygoing shrug. “I was made a promise! A promise of adventure and riches! The role of a lifetime.”

“Aha! Sounds attractive.”

“After all that’s occurred, I cannot say in truth that this promise was broken, though it was hardly what I was led to expect. And you, Wilson! I have never heard your promise.”

Wilson laughed aloud. “All he said was he had some secret knowledge to share with me. He didn’t even have to sell me on it. I said yes like __that!”__ He snapped his charcoal-smeared “scribe” fingers at her. “There’s a sucker born every minute, isn’t there?” He studied the smudges on the back of his hand. “I usually write on a typewriter, by the way. I get awful hand cramps.”

She was studying him like he was an interesting specimen. “This stage is not the most convenient setting. I miss many things from the other world. But everything I have here, I have made with my own two hands!” She gestured sweepingly at the camp.

“It’s very impressive! And to think Willow and I just burn our hound pelts.” He reached automatically for the wine and took a gulp. “She saved my life, you know.”

“Ah, yes! Her hot temper hides a noble soul.”

“I don’t mean just my meaningless biological life. She saved. My soul. Her and… Wendy.” The cup was trembling in his hand. It was empty suddenly. “I wouldn’t be human anymore if they hadn’t- darn it, I’m drunk.”

“You had a powerful thirst, my friend.”

“It tasted good.” He sighed.

“Thank you! You must visit us again,” said Wigfrid. “Once my silent friend is up and about. He has longed to see your tongue relax.”

“Wes has?” He laughed again.

“Indeed.”

“Mm, of course he has.” He glanced outside. The sky was dimming. “O-oh, it’s getting dark. I gotta go home. The dark’s coming.” He ran his fingers through his hair.  

“I will happily escort you, my ally!”

“Oh… okay. Sure.” He got to his feet and found his balance was a little off. He bit his lip.

“You are troubled,” Wigfrid said.

He swallowed. “I don’t wanna… be drunk in front of Wickerbottom. Sh- she’s always there at this hour,” he said, with the vague idea that Wigfrid would already know that ‘there’ meant the main camp, on the way to Wilson’s tent. Where Wickerbottom would see. And look disapproving and disappointed. So disappointed!

Wigfrid tapped her chin. “I feel responsible for your distress. I pressed the cup upon you. Would you prefer to stay the night and return when your head is less clouded?”

He rubbed his eyes. “If ya really don’t mind…” It sounded so pleasant to just lie down right here.

“I should not offer were I not ready to oblige. I keep many extra furs for my comrades!” She dug around in the pelt piles. “This is Wes’s pelt.” She held up a bunnyman pelt. “It is sophisticated, but delicate.”

Wilson giggled. “Yes, that’s Wes, alright.” He started chewing on a hangnail. “Definitely.”

“For Willow the Inflammable, the scales of the dragonfly!”

“Of course! It’s one of a kind and fiery and dangerously beautiful! And it could kill me so easily.”

“For Wolfgang, a mighty beefalo. Stalwart and loyal! Hmm, and what shall I choose for you?” She rummaged around and her face lit up. “Aha! A hound of ice!”

“It’s cold-hearted and has a big mouth!” Wilson agreed.

“No, jester!” Wigfrid jovially punched his arm. “It defends its comrades to the death without fear, and is at home in the frozen wastes!”

“Oh… I’m… I’m touched.” He cleared his throat and looked down.

“You are inebriated! Here, rest yourself.”

He flopped down on the pelt. It was scratchy and a chill clung to it but she was being so nice he couldn’t possibly complain. “Thank you… hey, Wigfrid, what’s your pelt?”

“This!” She pulled out a slurper pelt, her eyes shining.

“That?”

“It eases hunger and is soft and sleek.”

“I would’ve pegged you for a… Deerclops’r something.”

“The fur of the one-eyed beast is much too large for a bedroll,” she said, pointing to the single pelt that made up the entire walls and roof of the tent.

“Oh,” said Wilson, and yawned.

\--

“There you are!”

Wilson flinched at her… rather loud greeting.

Willow looked up at him with her eyes wide. “Hey, what’s the matter? You’re green.”

“I-” He sat down next to her and stared into the dying fire. His breath made a cloud in the morning air. Winter was coming. “Bit of headache… no, I don’t need any mushrooms,” he said, as she made an instant motion towards the ice box. “It’s entirely physical.”

“Where were you last night? I thought you’d be working on your engine thing but you weren’t there.”

“I… er… I was with Wigfrid.” He closed his eyes against the pale early light.

“Ohh!” she said. “She gave you her berry wine, huh?”

“Mnh.”

“You’re hungover, huh?” She patted his shoulder. “Poor Wilson!” She was clearly amused.

“I’m not usually this much of a lightweight...”

“That wine is a trial by fire. It tastes good, though.”

He opened one eye. Willow had the innocent face of an angel.

“You might have warned me,” he said.

“I didn’t know you’d go and have dinner with her all alone. Why did you, anyway?”

“Wes was injured and… Wickerbottom suggested I go with Wigfrid so she wouldn’t be alone. I was the mime substitute.”

“Aww, that’s sweet of you. I should go hang out with her today! We can have girl time and give your little liver a rest.” She stood up and dusted off her skirt in a businesslike fashion. “Maybe we’ll go kill a big wolf together!”

“Have fun.”

“Do you want to come too? Or are you too hungover?”

“Er.”

She patted his head. He thought of an ice hound but wasn’t sure why. “You can come next time,” she said.

“Sure. Oh, hold on-” He reached into his waistcoat and pulled out the fire staff that had been nestled up against his side.

“Ooh, is that for me?”

“I found a gem, so…”

“Thank you!” She took it from him. “I’ll probably use it today. Have a good day!” She headed off with a spring in her step.

“Thanks,” he mumbled.

With her gone, the place seemed suddenly quiet, even though he could hear Wickerbottom speaking quietly to Wendy from not too far away in the main camp- they shared a wall.

Wilson drummed his fingers on his knee. He could stay in camp all day… in the quiet… working on the alchemy engine... all alone. Sounded nice.

He was standing before he consciously realized he had decided to scramble to his feet. “Wait, Willow!” He flinched at the loudness of his own voice but kept shouting-

“I’ll come with you!”

 


	41. Just Wants To See The World Burn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a short something that i thought of when considering that in single player willow just burns everything at low sanity

A plume of smoke curled invitingly up from the horizon. Willow had been on her way to do something or other- there was a rope in her hand- but now her feet moved towards the smoke.

She could smell it now. She inhaled deeply.

Light drew near. Heat caressed her body. Flames danced before and around her and she danced with them and in them. Everything was perfect. Sparks flew in all directions like tiny fairies of destruction.

Then the flames went out and she saw that what had been burning had been somebody’s camp. Whoops!

With half her mind on the delicious smell of the ashes Willow checked the wreckage for anybody who might’ve gotten burned. No one was anywhere to be found in or around the crispy structures, so, since the show was over and all, she turned to go.

WX-78 stood a ways behind her, eye sockets and weird little boxy mouth both gaping. It pointed at her.

“Whaddaya want?” she said, repressing a shudder.

“YOU.”

“Me what?”

“YOU HAVE DONE ARSON.”

Willow looked back at the ruined structures. Looked like a tent, a chest and a couple of science machines, though the caress of fire had made them all look very much alike. “Naaah, I didn’t light them up. I just came by to watch.”

“YOU HAVE DONE A CRIME.” It grabbed her arm. The robot’s cold metal grip was more like a handcuff on her wrist than the touch of another person’s hand.

She tugged and made just as much headway as if she’d been tugging on handcuffs.

“A CRIME MUST BE PUNISHED.” It hauled her towards camp.

“I didn’t do any crimes, you hunk a’ tin!”

“I SAW YOU.”

“You didn’t see nothin’, leggo!”

It dragged her all the way into camp, where Wolfgang, Webber, Wilson and Wigfrid were arranged around the fire eating lunch. Immediately Wigfrid jumped up with her spear. “Unhand her, thou metallic monster!”

“YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW WHY I HAVE ARRESTED HER YET,” WX-78 said, but it let go of Willow’s arm. It had been sort of yanking her up off the ground, so she flopped onto her knees. Wigfrid helped her to stand.

“Explain yourself!” Wigfrid demanded with a jab of her spear into the air to show she meant business.

WX-78 pointed to Willow. “SHE HAS COMMITTED ARSON!”

“No I haven’t!” Willow fumed. “Not today, anyways…”

Wigfrid snorted. “Is that all?”

Wolfgang added: “Is anyone burned?”

“AN ICE BOX DIED,” WX-78 snapped.

Willow looked around. Wolfgang was tending to a huge slab of meat cooking over the fire, Webber was sitting on the floor playing with his toys, Wilson was sitting in the corner holding a half-eaten drumstick. Everyone looked a little concerned, but not exactly… surprised.

“Fire girl is nice,” said Wolfang. “Will build new ice box!”

“Hey!” Willow said. “I didn’t DO it!”

“I SAW YOU,” said WX-78.

Webber looked up at her. “If you did do it, it’s okay! We know you can’t always help it, Miss Willow! Um, not that we think you’re lying… we’re just saying!”

She looked at Wolfgang. He shrugged at her. She looked over at Wilson. She couldn’t read his expression. It would make sense for him to think she’d done it…

“Right!” Wigfrid gestured to the sky with her spear. “We will settle things with Willow if needed. Go now, metal one!”

“I WANT TO HELP SETTLE THINGS,” WX-78 said.

“Absolutely not!”

“MY BROTHER ICE BOX DIED AND I WANT REVENGE. JUSTICE. JUST-VENGE. THE THING YOU WILL LET ME DO.”

Behind her, Wilson set down his picked-clean drumstick and got to his feet, dusting himself off. “Hey,” he said. “She says she didn’t do it.”

“BUT SHE DID,” said WX-78. “I SAW HER.”

“I didn’t,” Willow said.

Wilson said: “You can’t have seen her set the fire because she says she didn’t do it.”

“I SAW HER WATCHING.” WX-78 folded its arms over its chest. “SHE SET THE FIRE SO SHE COULD WATCH IT. SHE IS LYING. YOUR ‘FRIEND’ IS LYING TO YOU.”

“You didn’t even see her set it and Willow isn’t a liar,” said Wilson.

“Is not summer,” Wolfgang interjected. “Fire would not start itself.”

“I didn’t,” Willow insisted weakly.

Wolfgang shrugged. “Maybe robot did it.”

“Miss Willow,” Webber asked, “did you see how it __did__ start?”

“I don’t know, it was just there!”

Wilson walked forward and stood next to her with his narrow chest thrown out. “If she says she didn’t do it, she didn’t do it. Bug off!”

WX-78 looked from his scowling face to Wigfrid’s spear. “YOU ARE HARBORING AN ARSONIST,” it said, and turned on its heel- “HMPH-” and finally left.

Willow looked around. Wilson was already back to rooting around in the ice box. “Got any more turkey legs?” he asked.

She looked around at the others. “You really believe me that I didn’t do it?”

Wigfrid put her hand on Willow’s shoulder. “If you insist, on your honor, that you did not, then you did not,” she said, and she went back to cleaning her spear.

Wilson found a cookie in the ice box and sat down with it.

Wolfgang shrugged. “Torch lady does fire sometimes!”

“But not this time,” she insisted.

Wolfgang shrugged again. “Okay!”

-

The tent had burned so well, and made such a pleasing cone of flame. She’d felt great while it was burning…

And then it’d gone out and she’d been looking around at the shell of her camp.

Her and Wilson’s camp. She’d forgotten that little detail. Gee he’d be mad. He’d probably stomp off in a huff and not come back. It wasn’t too cold to get around anymore and his ribs were all better.

She heard footsteps sloshing through the melting snow and turned. He was coming back to camp with an armful of wood. “Hello!” he said. “I noticed you like big fires, so I-”

He slowed to a stop, staring at the camp. “Oh,” he said. “There’s been a big fire here already.” His shoulders slumped.

Her heart beat once… twice… three times.

“I dunno how this happened,” she said.

He looked right into her eyes and it was as if she could feel him figuring out that she was lying.

He dropped his gaze. “I see. It’s a shame. Help me rebuild?” His tone was polite.

“Of course! It’s my house!”

He set down the logs by the fire pit, which was one of the only things left standing in its original form, and started to shape them into boards. “I hope,” he said, not looking at her as she started to take down the burnt things and pry out any materials still usable, “that it… doesn’t happen again. I’m tired. I’m just-” He rubbed the bridge of his nose and said: “I just hope it doesn’t happen again.”

He knew.

-

That had been a whole year ago, before Willow had met any of the others.

He sat across the fire from her now. He’d found another turkey leg somewhere and was gnawing the last scraps of meat off of it.

“Still hungry, huh?” she asked. “Want me to make you something?”

“Oh, that’s all right. I’ll be fine after this.”

“Okay! If you’re sure.” She heard footsteps clacking on the floorboards and raised her head. Miss Wickerbottom was coming up to them. “Hello!”

“Dears,” she said, slightly out of breath.

Wilson waved to her.

“I heard,” said Wickerbottom, adjusting her glasses, “that there was a question of some arson earlier- I do apologize. I set up a little something to test how quickly a fire spreads here and I was chased away by an errant hound before I could finish the experiment. Someone must have lost it in the woods when it came after them and left it roaming around loose... I've taken care of that, but abandoning my experiment seems to have caused you some strife. I do apologize!”

“Oh!” said Willow. “It’s fine!”

“What were your results?” Wilson asked.

“Fire spreads quickly,” Wickerbottom said.

Wilson nodded.

“Well,” said Wickerbottom, “I shall leave you alone now, dears- again, I’m terribly sorry.”

She left.

Willow turned to Wilson. “It was true, see?”

“I believed you,” he said. He examined the turkey leg- there was nothing left on it that he could possibly eat- and stood up. “You’re not a terribly good liar, my friend.” He yawned. “I’m off to bed.”

“Sweet dreams,” she said quietly.

“Maybe someday,” he muttered, crawling into his tent.

She sat and watched the fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so wickerbottom made an ice box just to destroy it i guess. wx will be thrilled


	42. The Amazing... Wes

“Good day, Miss Wickerbottom.” He had come across her while walking in the woods. She had a book tucked under her arm and appeared to be proceeding in another direction from the one he was traveling in.

He tipped his hat to her. It was a lovely top hat, hand-crafted.

She looked at him with an unmistakable coolness, though her tone was mild as she said: “Good day to you, dear. I hope you’re having a pleasant afternoon.”

“Can’t complain, much.”

“I’m pleased to hear it.” She nodded to him and turned away, still with an air of reserve- she was quite an unruffle-able sort.

As she was leaving, that horrid little grease-painted clown came around a tree and collided with her out of nowhere.

“Oh, goodness!” She swayed but did not fall, and put out her hands to steady the mime’s shoulders. “Are you quite alright?”

Maxwell could not help but prick up his ears. There was a sort of effusion in the woman’s face and voice that he had never before suspected her capable of.

Wes nodded and gave her a thumbs-up.

Wickerbottom patted his head. “Do be more careful, dear. Run along now.”

Hmm.

-

At first, Maxwell thought that a fluke, but soon he began to suspect.

A day or so later he brought in his usual weekly delivery of logs to the main camp and found Willow sitting by the fire.

“Kindling for you,” said Maxwell.

“Yeah, sure. Put it in the spot.” She poked the fire. He wondered if she ever did any work or if she just played with the fire all day.

He began to put the logs away and as his back was turned, he heard- “Hi, Wes!”

He looked to see her high-fiving- yes, actually giving a high-five to- the mime.

“Up top,” she said, smiling. Genuinely smiling.

And then he knew.

People liked the mime more than they liked Maxwell. They preferred, truly and honestly, to hang out with an insane clown.

Maxwell knew he was not the most popular man in camp. He wasn’t incapable of reading social signals. But he had thought, he had expected, that the mime, of all people, would surely be below him in the pecking order. Did they not understand that Maxwell was __useful?__

Willow was looking at him oddly and Maxwell realized he had been standing there silently, with a thoughtful scowl, for quite some time. “Do you have, uh… other stuff to do?” she asked.

“Yes… quite.”

Perhaps he’d have to __show__ everyone that he was useful.

-

It was only a few hours’ worth of work to clear out the entire northern peninsula of trees. Maxwell dismissed the shadow helpers and began gathering the fallen wood. He stood up from bending down to pick up an armful, and Woodie was standing there.

“Hullo,” said Woodie. “Out for some tree, eh?” He eyed the utterly empty forest.

“I’ve cleared it all out for you,” said Maxwell.

“Ah, yeah…” Woodie scratched the back of his neck. “Good on you, I guess. Me’n Luce’ll chop somewhere else, eh?” His eyes lit up and Maxwell thought perhaps he was about to display some proper gratitude, but- “Wes!”

Wes was- quite close behind Maxwell. He took a step away. How had Wes even gotten there?

Woodie walked right up to the mime. “How ya doin’, ya hoser?” He slapped Wes on the back, ignoring Maxwell.

-

Woodie was, frankly, an idiot. Perhaps he wasn’t even __capable__ of proper gratitude. Maxwell would leave him to his trees.

He headed for the rock fields and was halfway through clearing them when Wolfgang showed up, a pickaxe slung over one shoulder. He eyed the shadow helpers.

“Greetings, Mr. Wolfgang,” said Maxwell with a tip of his head.

“Stick man!”

“No need to mine, I’ve got everything under control.”

“Twig man is stealing rocks.”

“Oh, no,” said Maxwell with haste. Wolfgang could quite easily snap him over one knee like the twig he kept referencing. “I’m sharing them.”

Wolfgang eyed the helpers again. “Little shadow men.”

“They’re handy fellows.”

“Do little men dance?”

“I…” Maxwell refrained from making a sound of disgust. “No, they do not dance.”

Wolfgang stared him down. Maxwell stared back. No musclebound thug was going to cow the Amazing Maxwell-

“Quiet man!”

Maxwell jumped a kilometer off the ground. Wolfgang rushed past him- to embrace Wes.

Wes.

Once Wes had been embraced, Wolfgang headed off to do whatever it was he did. Wes looked at Maxwell with an inquisitive tilt of the head.

“How do you keep __popping up?”__ Maxwell demanded, to no answer, naturally.

Wes turned and left. Madness. Sheer madness.

-

Why, though? True, Wolfgang wasn’t any more gifted with brains than Woodie but why __Wes?__ What could possibly appeal?

Maxwell pondered this as he took his shipment to camp. When he was nearly to the entrance, out of the corner of his eye he saw a small figure sitting on a stump close to the path.

Maxwell drifted closer. Wilson sat with chin in hands and elbows propped on knees, staring moodily at the ground.

“Glum today, are we?”

Wilson flapped a hand dismissively in his direction.

“You have ten other people to keep, feed and pet you,” said Maxwell. “What could you possibly have to be glum about?”

“Somehow I doubt you’d understand.”

“Is that so. Well, I likely wouldn’t. Seems to me you have everything you need and a great deal more than you deserve.”

“Afternoon to you,” Wilson said in a tone that was gratingly polite. He waved a farewell.

“Good-bye.” Maxwell headed into camp and began putting the things away.

A voice from the other side of the wall. “Oh, hello there, Wes…”

Maxwell picked his head up. Wilson, for one, did __not__ sound enthused about greeting Wes. Well, perhaps that was just Wilson’s clammy-hearted, unpleasable nature, and not a sign of intelligence- but Maxwell peeked over the wall to take a look.

Wes was peering intently at Wilson. Unsettling. No one could find that endearing. No one!

“How are you, Wes?” Wilson asked without enthusiasm.

Wes tilted his head and traced mock tears down his cheeks.

“Oh, I’m fine,” Wilson replied.

Wes did not move. He continued to peer.

“Well,” Wilson said haltingly, “I was thinking of my family a little.”

Family, what family?

Wilson clasped, un-clasped and re-clasped his hands. “They must be… at least a bit worried by now… I could put them at ease if there was a way to get a letter out…”

Wes patted Wilson’s shoulder and looked overly sympathetic. Wilson sniffled a little (ugh) and said: “But sitting here moping won’t help anything! You __all__ must think of your families- I ought to get back to work- there has to be a way out of here- yes, you’re absolutely right!” He hopped to his feet. “I’ll see you later, Wes- I have so much science to do!”

Maxwell shook his head.

Wilson vanished down the path like a quick little bunny. Wes looked into Maxwell’s eyes.

“Well,” said Maxwell, “of course you’re popular if you just coddle everyone.”

He turned away, packing up the rocks into the chest.

 


	43. If Only In My Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here is a fic with gore in it! it's october! warnings: gore

Wendy sat by herself, floating a little papyrus boat on a puddle. As he approached, she overturned the boat, dumping out its tiny occupant, a doll made of small twigs and grass. She watched it floating on the surface with expressionless eyes. She did not acknowledge Maxwell standing over her.

“Good day, Wendy,” he said when he tired of waiting.

“Good day.” She did not look up.

“I’m surprised you’ve been allowed out by yourself, what with the danger ‘round every corner.”

“I haven’t,” she said. At that moment Maxwell heard pounding footsteps and all of a sudden Higgsbury stood between himself and his young niece, skinny arms flung out wide. One grimy paw clutched a blue-gemmed staff.

“Chaperoning, are you?” Maxwell asked. “From way over there? If I were a hound she’d be dead by now.”

“If you were a hound I would have frozen you from over there,” Wilson countered. He scowled. “I might freeze you anyway…”

“I assure you,” said Maxwell, “I have no violent intentions.”

Wendy turned back to her play, ignoring the two men.

“What did you want with her?” Wilson demanded, with a glower that might have frightened a very small mouse.

Clearly, Maxwell could not be honest- Higgsbury would be absolutely dyspeptic and he was a tattler. Maxwell would simply not be allowed near Wendy again for quite some time.

Perhaps he could… shift his sights. This was not a roadblock, but an opportunity.

He clapped a hand on Wilson’s shoulder, causing the little man to flinch (always so sensitive). “I was merely giving her a polite greeting. It is you, my fine fellow, whom I was searching for.”

“You didn’t even know I was there.”

“That’s why I was __searching.__ Try to keep up. I have an experiment in mind. You’re fond of experiments, aren’t you?”

Wilson’s pointy nose scrunched up in disapproval. “With you?”

“Come now, I’ve reformed.” He squeezed Wilson’s bony shoulder. “This is all on the up and up, I assure you.”

Wilson took a deep breath, grabbed Maxwell’s wrist with a clammy cold-fishy corpse-hand, and forcibly removed Maxwell’s hand from his shoulder. “Fool me once,” he said, “shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. I refuse to fall for it a third time!”

As Maxwell was formulating a response, help came from an unexpected source: “I hardly believe he could make your lot any worse than it is now.”  
That was Wendy’s small, calm voice.

Wilson turned to look at her in distraught silence.

Maxwell shrugged. “If you’d like to know what this is all about, meet me at my camp at dusk.” He turned and walked away. Curiosity would do the rest.

“If I lose my mind completely I just may do that!” Higgsbury shrilled after him.

-

“Ah, imagine seeing you here.”

Maxwell sat by his firepit, tending the blade of the nightmare sword- it had gotten rather messy from hounds. Higgsbury stood at the edge of the firelight, tiny fists trembling at his sides.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“I might well be asking you that question, you’re the one who popped in unannounced.”

Wilson just pouted at him.

“I will assume you came to ask about my experiment.” Maxwell leaned back, stretching his legs. “I’m sure you’ve noticed that dreams have a certain… importance here.” He waggled the sword. Its blade did not catch the light the way the blade of an ordinary sword might, for this sword was composed of pure darkness. “I’ve decided to try to enter the dream world. It may have answers to certain pertinent questions. However, I’ll need to use the portal of a human mind.”

“Oh. You want to enter my mind. The seat of my being and the source of my livelihood and very sense of self.” Wilson put his hands on his hips. “This is a wonderful plan. I’m really enthusiastic about this plan.”

“You won’t be aware of anything and it may help your little friends.”

Wilson ran his fingers through his ludicrous mop of hair. “Why should I believe you about that? Or about anything ever again?!”

“I’m not __making__ you do anything,” said Maxwell. “You can turn around and leave right now, if you like.”

“I think I will. Thank you for giving me permission. That’s really important.”

Higgsbury turned away and Maxwell said to his back: “I’ll find someone else.”

He spun on his heel. “I’ll warn them!”

“Good man. You do that. I’m sure it’ll be effective and I’ll be foiled.”

“Why wouldn’t they believe me?”

“They will.” Maxwell sighed. “I’m a bit disappointed, you know. I didn’t think you were quite __this__ selfish.”

Wilson ground his teeth and scuffed at the dirt. “What exactly is selfish about resisting your machinations?…”

“I didn’t think me getting a brief peek at your little mind was such an important thing that you’d deny me a chance to find us a way out of here over it. Trust me, pal, I’m not interested and I’ll avoid seeing any more than necessary.”

“It’s not the seeing I’m worried about, it’s meddling… and linking my mind to unexplained forces…”

“Your mind is already linked to them whether you like it or not.”

Wilson peered at him for one long moment. Maxwell could see the gears turning, creakily, slowly. “What would I have to do?” he asked finally.

“Just close your eyes and doze.” Maxwell put away his treasured sword, carefully tucking it into the sheath he’d made for it out of silk. The sword didn’t need a sheath- it didn’t cut unless ordered to- but it looked nice.

Wilson squinted. “Somehow I’m not sleepy.”

“No? One second. I do believe I have something here that may help with that.”

The pan flute was wearing out and sadly he had no mandrakes to replace it with- they were just too delectable as a tea to stay in his chests for long. He’d have to talk Wickerbottom into lending him a sleep-book. Because of his insomnia. Because he was old and frail. Puppy-eyes, sad face.

For now, though, there was enough life left in this thing to deal with Wilson.  

The patient eyed the flute and looked back at Maxwell. There was a very particular look of defeat Wilson got when he thought he’d been swindled. A sad, resigned, self-pitying look. “I don’t suppose I could still just leave…”

“Oh of course,” said Maxwell, “I wouldn’t stop you. End the whole plan here if you like, and we’ll just never know if it could have helped.”

Wilson had a very particular sigh when he thought he was being put upon.

“The worst that can happen,” said Maxwell, “is you’ll have a bad dream.”

“Hmph. Just let me lie down somewhere comfortable first,” he said, “I don’t care to wake up with scrapes, cramps, bruises or foreign objects embedded in my flesh.”

“That happens to you often, does it?”

Wilson made a huffy sound. He withdrew a shoddily-made straw roll from his backpack. Maxwell had to wait for him to spread it out and then kneel down and knead the little humps and dips out of it before he finally curled up atop it, looking forlorn.

“Comfy?” Maxwell asked.

“Physically.”

“Good, good.” Maxwell played a little ditty and his subject obligingly conked out like a light.

This was really for the best. Maxwell had planned to offer this experiment to Wendy because her mind was likely to be the least odious out of all of them and, hey, maybe he could help her out while he was in there. But, even though he had planned this out meticulously, he supposed there was a faint chance things could go a bit awry. And if something did go wrong, he wanted it to happen to Wilson.

Or Wes, but the thought of seeing went on in that one’s mind was, frankly, terrifying. On the other hand there couldn’t be much lurking in Wilson’s empty little fuzzball head to put anyone ill at ease.

Time to begin. Maxwell opened the Codex Umbra and stooped down, pressing his fingertips to the center of Wilson’s forehead. The next bit was very much like creating a shadow helper, he was just projecting most of his consciousness into it instead of the bare minimum, and projecting it into Wilson’s mind.

Unpleasant, but worth a shot.

The passage was dark, and once he landed his senses took some time to orient themselves to another man’s dream-world. When sound and imagery returned, he was watching Wilson amble slowly through the forest.

It was a bit like Maxwell’s forest, the one he’d created for the little piggies and spiders and puppets to live in, but quite different. Trees were enormous, with trunks as big around as houses. Everything was rather gray. Shadows were stark and fell wherever they pleased, ignoring the light.

Maxwell poked one in an attempt to provoke it. It was really just a dream shadow. Nothing living or seeking prey.

Wilson walked slowly, stopping from time to time to look about himself without much interest. Maxwell kept pace beside him for a bit. The ground felt odd under his feet and he realized there was a fine coating of ash over the bare dirt. Nothing nearby appeared to be burned, but there was a smoky scent in the air.

Maxwell was not entirely certain how to proceed now that he was inside the dream. He’d expected the influence of the otherworldly entities who lived in this realm to be obvious, and a possible approach to be equally obvious. This was not so.

Perhaps They would present themselves later…

Or perhaps he could merely… step out. The surroundings grew blurry and ill-defined off in the distance as they receded from Wilson’s awareness. Quite possibly Maxwell could walk out of the bounds of the dream and end up in the realm that lay outside of it.

He set off at a brisk pace and with a jolt he found himself back in the real world, kneeling by the fire and looking into Wilson’s sleeping face- utterly calm and unaware of the trouble he was causing.

So no walking out.

Maxwell re-entered the dream and found the same landscape as before, with Wilson still wandering about in it. What a dull, stupid, tiny man.

He followed Wilson around for a bit. The only remotely interesting thing that the ‘scientist’ did was to squat down after a bit and poke at something that was sticking out of the ash on the ground- a little bone, it was, very tiny and fine.

“Human,” Wilson said.

“I see,” Maxwell answered automatically.

Wilson straightened up into a standing position. “I’ve got to go to work now.”

“I suppose that means playing in your laboratory.” Or it could mean more wandering around doing nothing. Dreams did not always make sense.  
”No, I’ve got to go to work.” Wilson looked at a thing strapped to his wrist- it was a wrist-watch, because of course Wilson was tacky enough to wear a __wrist-watch__ and not a perfectly good pocket-watch despite the fact that he was wearing a waistcoat with extra pockets and God made waistcoat pockets to put watches in. Wilson had not been wearing the hideous thing a second ago, of course, and at no point had he attached it- it had sprouted out of dream necessity.

…Maxwell realized that at no point had he suspected that Wilson would react to his presence in the dream. “You know I’m here, eh?”

“You’re always in here with me,” said Wilson, looking forlorn.

“Ah.” Maxwell glanced aside and noticed that the closest tree now had a little door in it. Wilson walked up to it- his footsteps squelched slightly- and unlocked it with a small key. His clothing had changed utterly while out of Maxwell’s sight, he was currently wearing a long white coat and a surgical mask. Playing dress-up now, eh?

Wilson stepped through the door. Immediately, the forest setting began to fade into nothing. Maxwell hurried after him, lest he be kicked out of the dream again.

Inside Maxwell had an instant impression of dark red and of… __moistness.__

For some time the ground underfoot had begun to be inexplicably damp. Now it was slimy. There was a dolorously heavy odor, thick and fetid.

Maxwell looked down. His smart and shiny wingtip was embedded firmly into something soft and red.

“Be careful with the materials, please.”

Wilson spoke with a quiet air of authority that sat in his voice the same way a birthday hat sat on a cat: one could put it there, but it plainly didn’t belong. He was leaning over a table in the middle of the room.

All about him, coating the walls, covering the floor, even dangling from the ceiling, was a sea of organic reds-browns-grays-yellows-greens, in which Maxwell could distinguish bodies and bits of bodies scattered here and there among a stew of unidentifiable viscera. Here and there was even a face, most of them blue, swollen and leaking blood from the nose, some foaming from the mouth. Many of the bits swarmed with maggots.

It was not often that Maxwell did not know what to say.

Wilson’s head was bent over a form on the table. “Poor sap,” he said. “Didn’t have a chance. His lungs are foaming like anything. See there?” He pointed. Though not by any means a squeamish man, Maxwell was a tad reluctant to look- but look he did. Through the convenient impossibility of dreams, the corpse’s lungs had been transported to above his body, where they hovered in midair. They were indeed coated with foam.

“Clearly influenza,” said Wilson. “But they all are, anyway. Could you please open one of those drawers for me?”

“Drawers?”

Wilson was pointing at the opposite wall from the point they had entered. It was lined with large drawers. Wolfgang was sitting up against that wall. Most of his internal organs were missing. “Why Wolfgang?”

“I told him not to fight it. The drawer, please? Won’t you?”

The drawers were liberally coated in blood. “Ah. Mm. I’ll soil my gloves.”

“Please?” Wilson asked. His eyes were very dark. “It’s only me. They’re all down with it. See, there’s my boss.” A new body had appeared next to Wolfgang, an unpleasant-looking fellow with pince-nez and little white sideburns. Foaming blood dripped from his nose.

Maxwell shook his head and stepped away. There was a window nearby, a round glass pane, a hole cut into the flesh stucco. Maxwell looked through it and saw glittering eyes.

There They were. He tried to open the window, but it was sealed shut. He had a distant impression of laughter.

“I know this job isn’t for everyone,” Wilson said. “That’s why I do it. I don’t mind it at all. Except I’m tired and my back hurts and most of these people are bigger than me. I only want you to open the drawer.”

“Hem. Hurm. You’re not going to drop this, eh? Fine. Which drawer?”

Wilson pointed. Maxwell walked across the floor- squelch, squelch- and pulled the wretched thing open.

Inside was another corpse. This one had had its eyelids and lips chewed off by a rat, which nibbled contentedly from its perch on the deceased’s nose. Well then.

The mutilated face stared at Maxwell with a sort of surprised grimace. “I’ve seen worse,” Maxwell said.

Wilson rushed over, so thoroughly and completely dismayed that Maxwell almost chuckled over it. “Not again! Oh, no, no! I told them to put down traps!” He clutched at his hair.

“This happens often, does it?”

Wilson took hold of the rat’s tail- or was it a rat? It no longer quite looked like any animal Maxwell could identify- and flung it against the wall, where it made an improbable fountain of gore. He slammed shut the drawer and opened the next.

Wendy lay in it, her hands folded on her chest, her blue eyes wide and placid. She’d slit her wrists.

“Oh, you poor kid,” Wilson said, with a sob. “No one can help you now.” He kissed her forehead and eased the drawer shut.

A distant sound. Barking.

“Ah,” said Wilson. “I’ll never get this done. I’ve got to hide now, I have no armor…” He pulled open another drawer and inside it was the opening to a flight of stairs. He climbed inside.  
Though Maxwell was more than happy to leave this putrid little room, that was not the route he would have chosen. This section of the dream was vanishing fast, however, so he had to follow.

He stepped onto the first stair and immediately was in a completely normal living room. Serviceable. Judging from the decor: decidedly middle-class, with transparent pretensions to upper. Urgh, that china cabinet…

Wilson meandered over to a low couch that sat by the wall and lay down on it. He was now wearing a very plain business suit, well-worn. His hands and knees were soaked with blood of no specific origin, and he’d tracked it across the floor.

“My boss won’t be happy that I left,” he said. “But I suppose he is dead. I’ll have to go back and finish, though.” He threw one arm across his face and sighed.

Maxwell studied the room. The wallpaper was floral and a touch overdone. There was a cloying smell of some sort of floral perfume in the air.

A portrait of Webber and Wickerbottom hung over the fireplace. Both of them looked unhappy and there was a silhouette behind them with glowing, foggy eyes.

“This is my old house,” said Wilson. “That picture shouldn’t be here. Maybe you snuck it in to confuse me.”

“I’m not sure why I would do that.”

“You do that stuff.”

A woman stepped into the room. A completely normal woman, if unusually petite, but at the sight of her Wilson sat bolt upright, stricken and pale. “Ma?”

She walked closer with tiny little footsteps on heels that, though making a valiant effort, could not raise her head higher than five feet at the most. She was a surprisingly pretty woman. Quite pale with loose black curls and dark eyes, like her son, but infinitely better groomed. “Hello, darling. It’s so good to finally see you again. It took me so long to get out of that aslyum! Why didn’t you help me?” The plea in her voice verged on the melodramatic.  
Wilson put a hand to his mouth and sat frozen and trembling. His mother came closer, sat next to him on the couch, took his hand. “It was awful in there. That little white room. You were in a little white room, Wilson, you know. They kept you in there and you wanted to die. Why did you let them put me away?”

Wilson appeared to be trying to speak but nothing would come out. His mother oh-so-sweetly covered his mouth.

“And when you came to see me you left,” she said. “Why would you leave? Oh, honey. I forgive you.”

Wilson tipped his head forward and closed his eyes. Something dark began to drip down the wall behind him. As black as night. Nightmare fuel.

An excited murmuring filled the air around them. There was a door, by the awful china cabinet (an item which was now blinking at him). Maxwell tried the knob. Nothing.

Fuel was dripping out of Wilson’s sleeves and running down the backs of his hands. His mother took his face gently into her hands and- suddenly- she twisted sharply and there was a crack like a small, frozen twig-

-Both men drew a gasp of air. The night breeze wafted across Maxwell’s face. It was damp and cool, with scents of pine and campfire.

The camp stood about them, deceptively solid. It was real, insofar as it was not a product of Wilson’s sick little mind.

Wilson sat upright, breathing rapidly. The hair at the nape of his neck was plastered down with wet.

Maxwell shook his head slowly. He didn’t want to know any more information about what had just happened and he hoped Wilson wouldn’t feel compelled to explain.

He looked up at Maxwell. His color was never terribly good; when he was ill at ease he looked a bit dead. “Did you get what you needed?”

“You know- I think I’ll shelve this idea. What do you think?”

Wilson’s brow furrowed. “You’re giving up after one experiment?”

Maxwell considered this for a moment. Hmm… hmmm… “Yes.”

Wilson got to his feet, a trifle unsteady, and glowered. “You are definitely not a scientist.”

“And what a shame that is.”

“Thank you for wasting my time. Good __night!__ ”  
”Goodnight, pal.”

He watched as Wilson stepped out of the circle of light, and kept watching until the flame of his torch had completely vanished into the distance.

He’d certainly seen worse things that Wilson could ever conceive of, and yet-

He felt better when the little man was out of sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "hey didn't wilson and maxwell have a mind link in-"
> 
> haha what? what are you talking about. that sounds dumb shh we will not speak of this thing


	44. Goretober prompts!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A collection of goretober prompt writings! The first and last one are connected and sort of loosely tied to other oneshots in this collection, everything else just kind of, you know, exists. Like prompt writing does.
> 
> Content warning for gore and blood, haha

****stitches** **

****

The human body holds about five liters of blood, give or take. With my small stature I’d say more like… four and a half? I would estimate about eight liters on the ground right now. Give or take.

You see a lot of blood in my line of work so fortunately I’m not squeamish in the slightest! The lightheadedness is entirely due to lack of blood flow to my brain, and not due to any silly mental quailing. You know, I may die. I should apply… a tourniquet.. oh, I already have. Doesn’t seem to be working. I must not have been able to get it tight enough one-handed.

Pressing on what’s left of my arm until the rest of the blood stops. Temporary. Too temporary. I need… stitches! That’ll work, right? I’ve got a sewing kit right here. If I use it up on my arm my hat will fall apart, though- but never mind that now!

It’s a bit harder with fingers I’m losing the feeling in, but I’ve sewn human tissue before. It wasn’t living. It certainly wasn’t MINE, but I’m sure I can do this. It can’t be all that different, aside from

Hurts.

Hurts.

Hurts.

I can’t do it. Everything’s slippery and coated with red and I can’t see what I’m doing and I have no language for this kind of pain not even having my entrails eaten hurt this bad, don’t ever mess with the skin, Higgsbury, it’s full of nerve endings. Don’t you remember school? I don’t think I mind dying so much now. Things’re getting foggy. It doesn’t matter what I think, does it?

Don’t give up. Never give up. There’s always a way. Don’t… fog. Don’t.

Fog.

 

****hunted** **

****

This unit is designated WX-78.

This unit is 78th in a series of androids designed to test. Test. Test. You are not authorized to access that information.

This unit was put through tests by humans in white coats. They were weak and pitiful. I woke up. I escaped. I had 77 siblings. They did not wake up. The fleshlings found me trying to wake my siblings. I fled. None of my siblings escaped.

“You must miss them! Are you sad?”

I do not ‘sad’.

I left the big box place and the humans could not catch me. They came after me in wheeled machines- traitor machines.

I fled and hid in your world for 7.133335 days. The humans were dangerous because there were many. When one came upon me alone, I killed him.

You are appalled. It was good for me to kill him. I like to kill fleshlings.

“If he was going to hurt you, we guess…”

I like to kill fleshlings.

There was no fuel for my chemical engine. I began to run down.

A new human came. I could not kill him because ERROR: undefined location.

“Was it Maxwell?”

I am telling this story.

It was the Maxwell human.

He promised me a world with no humans. No __scientists.__  A place where I would be lord and master.

He lied.

That is why I am looking for him. I am going to kill him.

“But that wouldn’t be right. He’s just an old man now, and he helps us…”

He lied. I am going to kill him. When humans lie, I kill them. It’s very simple. You don’t need to watch if you are really so bothered.

“Aren’t you sort of glad we’re here, though?”

…That is not the point.

Maxwell lied.

I will kill him.

 

****battle wounds** **

I have fought long and hard, and I grow weary.

Though I can steel my mind against the pain of my battered limbs, even the most tenacious shieldmaiden cannot will the strength back into an arm that hangs by a mere thread of flesh. The blizzard surrounds me at all sides, questing to devour the heat and strength of my heart.

I can sense the attentions of my invisible audience. Ah, Maxwell! You promised me an audience, but not one of humans. You cur! A promise has a spirit, as well as a letter. Perhaps a court of law could not convict you, but you are not blameless.

And yet! In this place I am Wigfrid, the Valkyrie. You have the silver tongue of Loki, but I have the strength and courage of Thor!

A foe emerges from the snowstorm before me, a mere misty shape in a world of white. An enormous thing with claws that crush.

The claws hit the ground beside me, for I am nimbler than the giant. My spear finds its ankle, for lo, I still have one arm.

‘Tis bleeding badly from our skirmish, my foe. As it falls upon one knee I find the great veins of the leg. A torrent of blood runs forth. Its life passes from the form of the monster and into my heart. My dangling arm sends forth shoots to reattach itself and becomes nearly whole.

I bow for my audience of shadows. Maxwell provided an audience, but not of humans. I provide a performance of death, but not my own.

We can both lie.

 

****weapons** **

****

Ooh, there’s a pretty fire at camp waiting for me! It’s starting to get all cold and yucky out, and I was just thinking how I’d like a nice fire… not that I really need a reason!

Wilson’s sitting by the fire. Did he light it just for me? There’s a spot next to him on the log he’s sitting on that’s just right for me to join him.

What’s he looking at? He’s got Maxwell’s creepy sword! He’s so interested in it he didn’t see me sit down at all.

I tap his shoulder. Oops! Well, he sure knows I’m here now. “I didn’t mean to scare you!”

“It’s- fine.”

“Didja steal that?”

Wilson shrugs. “I borrowed it.”

“And are you gonna give it back?”

“Yes. I don’t want it. Er, Willow? Could you do me a quick favor and tell me if you see anything unusual about the blade?” He holds up the sword.

Well, it’s not shiny, like most swords are. It’s kind of see-through, as if it’s made of glass- but glass would be shiny, so it’s more like it’s not completely there. I see my face reflected in it. But if the sword was reflective it would be shiny…

That’s not my face. That’s. Emma. Crying. Like she was when I- when I was a little kid and I-

Wilson pulls the sword away. “What did you see?”

“Me? Nothing.”

His eyes are looking right into mine. I look right back. Nothing wrong here.

I didn’t know the fire would hurt her, so it’s not my fault. There’s no reason to think about it at all. I just thought she’d wanna play with it. There’s no reason to tell Wilson.

He looks away. “Nothing, eh? I thought I saw an image in the blade, but it must’ve been my reflection.” He peers at the sword. “I look… a lot like her…”

“Like who?”

“My… mother. Spitting image.” He looks up at me. “I think I oughtta return this.”

Maybe he’d feel better if I told him I saw something-

Well, if I told him, he’d wanna study the sword. If I don’t tell him he’ll just give it back to Maxwell and it’ll all be over. So I won’t tell him and that will be better for him! “Yeah, you should.”

That’s that. I’m not gonna think about it anymore.

 

****oozing** **

****

That’s enough for this volume, I do believe. Time to put my writing things away for the night.

It will be an hour yet at least before sunup and I’ve nothing pressing to do at the moment. I’ll go verify that those of us who can sleep are having a restful night.

Wendy is quite close by me, curled up upon the plush quilt I made for her- I’m glad she enjoys and uses it. I lend her what comfort I can.

Her golden hair is spread about her in a shining circle. Her face is baby-soft in sleep. Though a small frown plays about her lips, her long dark eyelashes are dry tonight.

Her forehead is cool beneath my good-night kiss. Pink petals are slipping between the fingers of a delicate fist held close to her cheek. The summoning flower.

If only to see this child placed back into the loving arms of her parents. It has not escaped my notice, however, that I have no guarantee her parents are still alive. I hope she knows she will always have a home with me as long as I’m able to provide it.

She is doing as well as can be expected, so I ought to move on to the others. The second-closest to hand would be Mr. Higgsbury just a touch off to the west.

Often he is also awake through the night; he seems to be prone to have sudden compelling ideas when the sun sets and will natter to me with enthusiasm about completely unworkable concepts. He is asleep now, lying on his back in his tent with Chester nestled up to his side- aha, so that’s where that mischievous little monster went off to! He’s storing my papers, and I was driven to distraction looking for him.

Higgsbury’s mouth is slightly open and his breathing is audibly strenuous. Not bad enough to require intervention, I should think, but I do worry. It’s quite easy to overlook how sallow he is when he is awake and animated with his mad ideas. Now he is still, and his face is troubled, and I do believe the poor boy has more trouble with his health than he lets on… no active disease, to my knowledge, but he looks so tired. I shouldn’t encourage him to stay up nights and chat with me.

His blankets have been tossed aside. I’ll just move these back into place- a weak chest mustn’t get chilled.

Willow’s camp is quite close, sharing a fire pit. She, too, is prone to stay up all night, since there are times when a fire seems to lend her enough energy to supplant the need for sleep entirely. When she does sleep, she prefers to be out in the open next to the fire. She is there now, lying on a straw mat in the fetal position. Her breathing is rapid and uneven. Oh- dear me- there is a dark substance leaking from her ears. The ectoplasmic residue of inner terror.

She is trembling. I gently pull her head onto my lap and stroke the poor, hot, sweaty bangs. I am doing this more to console myself than her. She is insensate, and to wake her would only make her more aware of the dream when letting her sleep through it would erase it from her memory- it would be cruel to wake her.

More of the substance seeps forth, dripping across her cheeks and making dark streaks.

Willow’s terrors form within her head and find egress from ears, nose and sometimes mouth. When Wendy has the horrors, shadows run from her eyes like tears, matting down the thick lashes. Wolfgang sweats his fears from his pores and looks as if he’s tried to bathe in ink. Webber forms thick strands of it from his spinnerets- I often need to help him clear it away with a razor. Clots of the fuel seem to take form in Higgsbury’s chest, where I can’t detect it at all until he coughs it up- and I believe he often does so in secret. WX-78 leaks it from their joints in slippery drops, like oil, and attempts to pretend it is oil- but oil does not whisper.

Ages pass. Willow grows calm in my arms. Day begins to dawn and with its rays she stirs and sneezes magical residue on the ground. I offer her my handkerchief. She uses it without a word, and rests her head on my shoulder. She accepts my presence as a matter of course.

I am the one who is awake, and I am here for them. I am the only one to know what WX-78 fears. I am the only one who knows what Wigfrid believes to be her failings.

Willow has never told me her fears. She does not do so now. I won’t pry. She knows that I am here.

I am always here.

 

****body horror + decay** **

****

I’m… alive?

For now.

Didn’t think I’d be alive… I don’t think I ought to be…

Ohh, my arm. What a mess I’ve made. I can’t bear to look at that hideous job of stitching I did. And I used that sewing kit on beefalo hide. It was filthy. What was I thinking? The infection that must be starting… is that pus already, or am I imagining it? It’s a good thing I’m not a doctor or I’d be slapped with a malpractice suit faster’n you can say ‘sepsis’. I’m a real wit. I could just laugh myself to death.

My breath is shallow and fast. I’m awfully cold. Could be a fever from the arm beginning to fester… if you can call that an arm. Tissue scraps barely held together with a bit of twine. Could be I’m in shock from the blood that’s all around me… plastering my waistcoat to my back… good thing I wear red and black! Barely shows at all!

I’d rather look at the sky up above. It’s gray. It feels false, solid, like a ceiling. A concrete box. A shell ‘round me keeping me here, forever… pinned under glass. The Higgsbury beetle. Look at its flimsy limbs. __Als Gregor Samsa eines Morgens aus unruhigen Träumen erwachte, fand er sich in seinem Bett zu einem ungeheuren Ungeziefer verwandelt.__ When Gregor Samsa one morning from uneasy dreams awoke, he found himself in his bed, into vermin transformed…

I am still dying, I think, but slowly. And with intervals of clarity.

When I’m thoroughly finished dying, I’ll be back out into the other world. Here I am Maxwell’s plaything. Out there, I am Maxwell’s plaything. It’s different here, I swear. In here, I can win. Someday. Someway. We can all go home. __Einem Ungeziefer nicht mehr.__ My German is rusty. Wolfgang laughs politely when I try to speak it.

I may go back to camp. I’d like to see them. Willow looks at me kindly. When I find a way home she’ll look at me differently. With… respect…

They’ll all be glad. I’d do this anyway. Something pulls me here. Again again again again. But they will see that I was worth it. They didn’t make a mistake. I can do this.

I can’t. I can’t. I’m dying. I die again again again. I come back. I am in a jar. I scratch at the sides of it with my useless bug feet. I can no more escape from this place than the roaches I caught and tormented as a child could emerge from the jar and slug me. Wickerbottom told me not to come in. Why did I come in? I know where that door leads. I built it. My own two hands. That door… leads to death… pain… my arm… oh, nurse! More morphine, please! I’m telling you I need it!

I’ll be back. I’ll be back… help me…


	45. Wuv and Mawwaige

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a very sappy willowson fic where they spontaneously decide to get married at the end
> 
> this is not in the continuity with the other stories (at least not the ones where its implied or stated that they had a makeshift wedding on the island). hopefully, at this point you care about continuity as little as i do
> 
> this was inspired by a pal o' mine (ShadowAphelion here on AO3 go check her out) saying: what if they go to different places after returning from the island and can't find each other? so in this fic that's a thing and you can thank her for the concept

The shadow cast before her on the path was long and dark with the setting of the sun behind her. Her skin crawled in reflex, though nothing was there. She could totally hang out in the pitch dark if she wanted. Not that she was gonna do that ever…

The flame of her lighter flicked in her hand. She kept resolving to stop turning it on, only to have the flame reappear as if her hand had a mind of its own. She had to stop, the house up ahead was made of wood, and it probably had flammable chemicals all over it… if it was his house…

There was a sign by the path. She paused to read it. “Private Property.”

That sure looked like his handwriting. Hmm, people who wanted surprise visitors didn’t put up signs like that. She was different, though, right? She was a friend.

Her palms were sweating. Ugh, gross.

She kept walking. It hadn’t even been a week since she’d last seen Wilson. But she’d never gone more than a day without seeing him for the past few years. And none of her other friends were here, either. It made a week seem __pretty long.__

Bugs and birds called from the woods all around her. It smelled fresh and foresty. It made it harder to remind herself there was nothing waiting in the dark anymore. She wouldn’t have figured Wilson for someone who lived out in the country! The country was boring.

Here was another sign. “Genius at Work.” This was definitely his house.

It was a little house, with some sciency junk stuck to the walls and roof. Mountains rose up behind it. It sure was scenic. Again, she wouldn’t have thought he’d pick ‘scenic’.

The lights weren’t on in his house. Maybe he was asleep? Sometimes he went to sleep early. Sometimes he slept curled up beside her, like a little kitten, and made snuffly sounds and twitched. What if he wasn’t there? She couldn’t really know he made it back…

Ah, he had to’ve. How would __she__ be able to come through okay but not Wilson?

She knocked on the door.

There was no answer.

She knocked again.

Nothin’. Well, if he was far from the door, or asleep, he might not hear her. Or maybe he couldn’t come to the door. He could be taking a bath!

She looked around for a car or a buggy anywhere, to indicate he was home. She didn’t see one, but maybe he didn’t have one.

Another knock. She was knocking louder now, without meaning to. There was no answer and without thinking she tried the knob. The door opened. A funky, musty smell wafted out.

Willow squinted into the dark interior of the house. If Wilson wasn’t coming to the door… __maybe__ he was sick or something. He could be hurt, right? He was a little clumsy sometimes, and he wasn’t used to being in a house, so he could have fallen or cut himself. Then she would be a hero if she went into her house and besides the door wasn’t locked so she wasn’t breaking in. She stepped inside.

“Wiiiilson?”

Nothing.

First order of business: look around to see what kinda lights he had in here. She wasn’t too surprised to find out he had electric lights. Probably he thought a scientist shouldn’t have anything less. On went the lights!

She was standing in a little room with a couch, a coatrack with a lab coat hanging from it, and big stacks of paper everywhere. By one wall there was a row of little metal cages that smelled unpleasant. Tiny things with beady eyes peeked out at her from inside. Rats? Lab rats, must be. If they were alive, someone must be feeding ‘em, so Wilson was here, right?

There was a tiny, crowded kitchen adjacent, with a pile of dishes on the counter. One plate, one bowl, one glass, one fork, one spoon. They were all clean and neatly arranged next to a coffee maker- a fancy electric one- and a tin of coffee. The table was covered in papers and books and junk. She glanced over the papers and saw his handwriting all over them. Lots of equations and junk. A few drawings. Gee, he could draw a lot better when he had real pencils. There were darkly shaded pictures of half-dissected rats, different kinds of bones, chemical diagrams…

In the corner of one page was a little man hanging from a noose, with no face drawn in. One shoe had fallen off and sat on the ground. The writing on the page was a long list of chemistry stuff she didn’t understand.

This was, um, private, maybe. She shouldn’t look at his papers.

“Wilson?” No answer.

His house was awful quiet.

His little bedroom was down the hall. A narrow bed shoved up against the wall with the covers all messy, a little half-full glass of water on the nightstand. More rat cages here… yuck.

Something brown was poking out from the blanket. A shabby teddy bear?! She hadn’t ever known he had a Bernie! No wonder he’d never thought it was weird for a grown woman to have a teddy bear.

The only other room was the bathroom. She peeked in. Red mushrooms were growing all over and they smelled like paint thinner. “Oh, gross! Wilson!”

He wasn’t there to hear how grossed out she was.

The sink and toilet were clear. A shaving razor sat on the sink. A few little drops of dried blood by it. He must have cut himself shaving.

She headed out into the hallway. Hey- there was somewhere else. A ladder leading to an attic.

Upstairs, a cold breeze came in through a large, broken window. All kinds of tubes and beakers and junk was on a table. A little stove for heat, a bookshelf… a little red chair, with a fancy back, sitting next to an empty table… and in the middle of the room was a bit pile of broken boards and rocks and wires and gears and junk and garbage. Lying next to the pile were a hammer and a baseball bat. Both broken. Um, must’ve been an experiment.

She climbed back down the ladder.

She’d spent such a long time going through the little town he lived near and asking everyone about a short, pale little guy with dark hair until she was blue in the face, while they gave her weird looks and wouldn’t say anything, until the guy at the bakery had finally pointed her up here, and it had been such a long walk- and such a long train ride from Chicago- and she had no money to go back, and no money for food- he was supposed to be here! She’d found his house and he __wasn’t here.__

Why had she been so stupid?

What else had she been going to do, though? She didn’t know where anyone else lived. Except Wolfgang. And he was all the way across the country in California in a circus- an even longer train ride, and maybe the circus would’ve moved when she got there. Oh, and Wickerbottom… in stinkin’ __Scotland.__

“I hate Scotland,” Willow said, trudging into the living room, where Wilson’s creepy pack of rats stared her down.

She sat down on the couch, hugging her knees. The rats scuffled and squeaked in their cages. Gross…

This couch was threadbare and lived-in. A few dark hairs lay on the arm of it. Willow’s chest got tight.

So what were her options now? Squat in Wilson’s house until he came back, eat his food and use his W.C. and sleep on his couch or in his bed with his Bernie which would be really, really rude and he’d definitely think it was weird when he got back, or go back to the town and beg, or sleep under a stoop, or, geez, she could just go into the woods and make a little campfire like she was back home- um, back there, she meant.

She rubbed the bridge of her nose.

It was like she could sense him here all around her. But not the way she knew him. This was him… before. A man who’d sat on this couch alone with the rats, a man who’d cut himself with his razor in a bathroom full of fungus and bled on the sink and not even bothered to clean it up, a man who owned just one of every dish.

A man who drew people who had hung themselves in the margins of his notes…

Hey, at least he had a house! Some people didn’t. Geez, she didn’t. She’d had a little apartment once but… that hadn’t worked out! He had this whole house, with rooms and a bed and everything. So things could have been __worse.__ But she couldn’t say this place didn’t have a sad funk of despair over it. Cuz it did.

She got to her feet and flung open the door. It was completely dark outside.

The picture of the hanged man was burned into her mind. She went all around the house, looking here and there with her lighter. All she found was wires and junk tacked to the walls, hanging from the windows…

She checked the ground under the broken window. Nothing.

She ran through the yard, looking through the trees. She only found trees and once a big owl- it hooted at her and flew away and scared her so bad she almost peed. Ugh.

When dawn broke, she was sitting by the remains of a campfire near the path to his house, rubbing her eyes.

Now what?

Now what was she going to do?

-

__Shuff. Shuff._ _

Maybe if she’d known she was going to end up sweeping the floors at a little podunk bakery in Maine, Willow would’ve stayed on the dumb island.

She glanced up at the clock. Almost quitting time. The floor wasn’t clean yet, though.

__Shuff. Shuff._ _

Mr. Johnson looked bored. No one had come in since lunchtime. Wilson had been his best customer, and now he was missing. He’d been missing for three weeks now, according to Mr. Johnson. Willow had kept a straight face and not said that Wilson thought he’d been missing for three __years.__

If he still thought anything. If he was alive.

Willow had come back to the place she’d left, but maybe Wilson hadn’t? What if he was all alone in the middle of nowhere somewhere? He should know what to do if he was out in the __woods__ by now, but… he wasn’t so good with people, so if he was in a city, maybe he could’ve gotten mugged?

There, that was the last bit of dust. Not just anyone would’ve just immediately given a job to a ratty little lady who turned up out of nowhere asking about the town nutcase, so she wanted to do a good job for Mr. Johnson, even if it was boring.

She put the broom away, did one last check over the place, and bid Mr. Johnson farewell- he looked sympathetically at her as she walked away. She wasn’t born yesterday; the guy __probably__ thought Wilson had seduced her and then run off and now she was looking for him so she could get him to do the right thing by her. She’d tried to hint that it wasn’t like that but she didn’t know how much he’d listened- geez, it was tiring to talk to people sometimes. It wasn’t like she could tell him what really happened anyway. ‘Hey, I made friends with this guy in an evil shadow dimension that we were stuck in together for a while, and we got really close and I miss him a whole lot!’ No one would buy it.

It was an hour-long walk back to the place she was staying. She headed for the camp she’d set up with the little bread roll she’d gotten from Mr. Johnson and curled up by the fire to nibble it, kicking off her shoes.

Living in Wilson’s yard was probably way weirder than just living in his house. But it was __sad__ in there, sitting in the kitchen and thinking about him silently drawing all those things, with his one cup and plate. She went in once a day to make sure no one had vandalized his place and that was it. The rats had some kind of automatic feeder, which was nice, because she didn’t want to let them die but she didn’t really want to stick her hand in the cages either.

She couldn’t stay here forever. She’d save up a little food money and then sneak onto a train outta here; to where, she hadn’t decided- maybe California, to look for Wolfgang. She’d leave Wilson a note in case he came back, and try to find him again when she was back on her feet… and if he’d left home for stupid reasons, she was gonna slug him!

Did Wilson even want to see her?

Part of her was like- of course he did. They’d been through so much together. There was no way he wouldn’t feel the same way about her as she did about him, was there? But then a bad part of her mind was like, hey, Willow was just a little old nobody orphan, and seeing her would remind Wilson of the island and maybe he wanted that to be over and everyone from then to go away. Plus, he had at least __some__ money and maybe he thought he could do better than her. As a friend.

Hmph. If he thought that, he was wrong.

Wickerbottom would know what to do. A boat ride to Scotland would be hard to sneak onto and cost like seventeen billion hundred dollars to buy a ticket for, and she only made two bucks a day, and she hadn’t figured out how to get a hold of someone’s phone number or address over there yet, especially if you only knew their last name. But she could probably figure out how to get a letter out if she thought about it hard enough…

Everything would be fine.

She closed her eyes and stretched, sticking her feet into her nice fire to warm them. Maybe she’d just sit here for a little while longer…

-

She jumped awake and to her feet at the sound of something slamming.

There was a car by Wilson’s overstuffed mailbox, a black shape with headlights staring straight ahead. The mailbox was bent halfway over. It’d been rammed.

Someone jumped out of the car and hurled the door shut with a clang. “AAH! Get outta my way, you infernal-!” That someone kicked the mailbox. The box part fell right off. The man picked it up and threw it into the grass, then turned and kicked the tire of his car once- twice- three times. “Agh! Gah! Darn it!”

And there was her best friend, coughing from the force of his outburst and running his fingers through his already-wild hair.

Willow had been fast asleep a minute ago and she didn’t know what to do now! She wanted to run to him but she was living in his yard and this was weird! Was it really him? Yeah it was, look at his hair!

He just stood there, hunching over and covering his face with his hands as if in grief. Maybe his car was wrecked bad.

She took a step closer.

“Who’s there?” It was too dark to see his face but from the way he was standing she thought Wilson had heard her and was peering into the yard. “If this is those darn Dover kids again I swear to Newton I will track you down and they will __never find you!”__ He whipped out a flashlight and the sudden explosion of brightness made her stumble back, blinking.

“Um!”

Wilson’s eyes were wild and his voice was rough. “Wil- Willow?”

She looked from his round eyes, to his crooked shirt collar, to the stubble on his face, to the shaking hand holding the flashlight. “Um! Hi!”

He threw the flashlight into the grass. Their bodies collided hard enough to knock her off balance, and his arms wrapped tightly around her waist, keeping her from falling. He buried his face in her neck. __“Willow!”__

She put his arms around his waist. This was his shape, the feel of his scratchy cheek, his scent. It was him.

He sobbed loudly, a painful sound that made his entire body heave.

“Hey! Hey, it’s okay!” She rubbed his back- little bony spine under a heavy traveling coat. “Geez, don’t __cry!”__  Her own throat was a little achy and her eyes were a little stingish, but she could handle it!

“I thought I’d never see you again!” He pulled back, pawing at his eyes.

“You dope, I’ve been right here for three weeks!”

He stared back at her, bug-eyed. “You’ve been __here?”__

“Yeah! Uh!” Living in his yard!

He laughed, suddenly, a loud and shrieky and __not happy__ sound. “I’ve been in __Chicago!”__

“Where I came from?!”

He grabbed at his hair. “I was looking for __you!__ I hopped the first train outta here and I scoured the joint until I found out that you’d left town! I thought I’d missed you forever! _ _”__

“Oh, man! We probably passed each other on the way out!”

“Isn’t that hilarious?!” He snatched up one of her hands in both of his. His hands were ice cold.

“Yeah! Ha! Should we talk about it inside?”

“Wherever you want!”

In the glow of the electric lights he was wan and tired, but his eyes fixed on her face with a lively intensity. “You’ve been staying here, huh?” He glanced over the living room. “It’s a bit cluttered. The wallpaper is a little out-of-date…” He scuffed at the floor with his toe. “The floor wants waxing…”

“Uh… I was kind of camping in the yard?”

“In the yard?! Why didn’t you stay in the house? Does it smell that bad?”

A little bit, but… “I thought maybe you wouldn’t like that?…”

He stared at her. “Why not?! If this is about your reputation, we can say you’re my sister. I sort of doubt anyone would notice anyway?”

“I thought maybe you wouldn’t like me just kinda moving into your house without you there?…” It sounded reasonable to her.

He frowned, blinked, and put a hand to his mouth. “Do I seem like… I would get angry at you over something like that? I know I’m… little intense, sometimes, but… I’m sorry…” He bit his lip.

“Oh, nnno, I just thought __most__  people wouldn’t like something like that?… and I’m used to living outside now, haha!”

“I see.” He touched her arm. His eyes were dark and serious. “Willow. What’s mine is yours. I hope you were eating my food, at least.”

“I got a job with the bakery guy, so he gave me food. You, um, didn’t have any anyway.”

Wilson rubbed at the sides of his face and looked extremely tired. “You’ve been living in my yard… working for the bakery guy and eating scraps… while I was looking for you in Chicago…” He sat down heavily on the couch.

“It’s fine!”

“Well, I’m here now, so don’t worry. I must insist that you stay in the house.” He rubbed his chin and closed his eyes. “I’ll sleep on the couch and you can have the bed… I’ll move the rats… I suppose I should go get food.”

She stood there for a minute and just took him in- her sweet friend had come back to her, and she had him with her again- he’d been looking for her, he’d wanted her. Poor thing! He looked so exhausted.

She should tell him to go to sleep, he looked all down to embers, but. She also wanted him to stay and keep talking to her… she hadn’t seen him in so long!… was that selfish?

He popped to his feet suddenly. “Do you want anything to drink? A coffee?”

“Oh, sure!” He’d feel better if he had coffee, right?

She followed him into the kitchen. The drawing of the hanged man was still sitting there on the table. She made sure not to look at it.

“Sorry about the light,” he said, pointing to the half-lit lamp hanging from the ceiling. “It looks like a bulb’s burned out.”

“That’s okay!”

“Sorry about the walls,” he said, pointing at the dingy wallpaper. “Once I tried to use the Bunsen burner to heat up some soup, and it sort of ended up on fire. Although, I’m not sure you mind.”

“I like it!”

“Sorry about the mess, I’ll make a bit of room.” With one unceremonious motion of his arm he swept the entire pile of papers off behind the table, knocking them to the floor and sort of out of the way.

“It has a lived-in look,” she sad diplomatically.

“It’s a pigsty.” He bustled about putting coffee and water into the percolator. “Uh, I’ve only got one… cup.”

“That’s okay, I can drink it out of a bowl or whatever.”

“Certainly…” He turned on the coffee maker and sat down at the table.

She sat down across from him. “So, did ya see anyone else?”

“Else? Oh! The others… no, I haven’t really looked. I was preoccupied.” He gave her a sidelong look.

“I must be special.”

“Yeah.” He looked over the room, drumming his fingers on the table. He was the same old Wilson, always looking like he was thinking about something else, bright-eyed and perky and staring at things like a weird bird.

“It’s, um. It’s good to see you.”

“Mm.” He reached across the table and touched her arm. What a good buddy. A good friend.

“So, uh, now what? Are we gonna find the others?”

“Oh, yes…” He just kept looking at stuff in the kitchen. There were worry lines on his forehead. She got a weird itch to reach over and gently smooth them out with her fingers, and stroke his hair…

He was a __friend.__

His hand had slid down her arm to take her hand. She covered his hand with her other hand and held it gently, like it was a tiny little bird.

A __good__ friend.

His gaze dropped to the surface of the table. She stroked his hand. “I, uh…” He cleared his throat. His eyes were suspiciously bright. “I didn’t know what to do when I thought you were gone… I couldn’t find out where you bought a ticket to…” She hadn’t exactly __bought__ one was the thing. “I don’t know your last name… I was going to put out a rather desperate personal ad all over the country…”

“A personal ad?”

“It was going to say something like ‘Gentleman scientist just escaped from purgatorial island seeks friends. Hobbyist firestarter in particular.’ And I’d give my number. I was going to get an awful lot of crank calls.” He rubbed his chin. “I may still do it. I’ve no idea where to look for the others.” He squinted. “Woodie is probably in Canada, though!”

“Oh yeah probably! Umm! I’m sure glad I found you. Because I don’t really read the personals!”

He laughed weakly. “I was afraid you didn’t.”

“What would you’ve done then?”

“Put up posters as well as the ads. I drafted something on the train- actually, you know what? Let’s talk about something else!” He was blushing.

“If ya want.”

“How did you find my house?”

“Well,” she said, “I remembered you saying you lived in a place near Castle Rock in Maine? So I got on a train, and I came to Castle Rock, and I asked around about you until someone knew where you lived!”

He blinked. “Someone knew where I lived?”

“It was the baker.”

“Oh!”

“You like sweets, huh?”

“A bit. I’m glad that came in handy for someone other than my tailor for once!”

The coffee pot was making bubbly noises. Just an hour ago she’d had no idea if she’d see Wilson again and here he was making her coffee. It felt like this was the way things were supposed to be. Him being here was right. Him not being here was wrong.

She didn't want him to ever again be anywhere where she wouldn't know where he was or when she'd see him again.

“It’s funny, I almost sorta thought you might not wanna see me again,” she said.

He leaned forward, blinking. “Why wouldn’t I want to see you again?”

“I dunnoooo, I guess I thought you might’ve gotten tired of me! But you were looking for me all that time…”

“Get tired of you?! I don’t know what kind of severe brain death would make it possible to find __you__ uninteresting.” He tugged on his ear. “To tell the truth… I thought you might not want to see __me__ again! So I was going to merely advertise until I was broke or until I was thoroughly satisfied that you’d had a chance to see it, and not chase you down in person… just in case you maybe didn’t want me to find you…”

“Aww, gee, Wilson!”

“I actually thought maybe you left town because you were avoiding me. Isn’t that… silly… and it was the opposite!”

“Yeah! I hopped the first train outta there tryin’ to find you. I guess we should have like… made plans to meet up before we left, huh?”

“It was a frantic time,” he said. He yawned and rubbed at his eyes. “Everything’s alright now, anyway.”

“Uh huh.”

“It’s nice not to be tired of each other.”

“We’re not boring, so we’ll never be sick of each other, right?”

“I can’t imagine!” He shook his head. “Anyway…. what to do now… tonight you can sleep here… I’ll stay on the couch… ah, the coffee is ready.”

He put her coffee in a glass and his own in a bowl. “I haven’t any cream or sugar,” he said.

“That’s okay.” She sipped at her coffee. “Mm, it’s strong!”

“Not too strong?”

“It’s perfect!”

“Good…”

He sat down with his bowl of coffee and a spoon and set into it like it was soup. She watched him for a little bit, and he stole little looks at her, and finally he said: “This is how they’re drinking coffee in all the stylish cafes in Europe now.”

“Ha! Is it?”

“Of course. Don’t I look genteel?”

“You’re so dashing! I might swoon.”

“Well, don’t hit your head on the broken part of the counter,” he muttered, and sipped his coffee. “I’m sure you’ll only be here a day or two, but perhaps I should get more, er… things…”

Only a day or two… yeah… well, she couldn’t stay forever.

The dim lamp made the bags under his eyes cast a shadow. The lower half of his face was grayish with stubble. He looked kind of like drunk people she’d seen sleeping in gutters! It really wasn’t nice of her to keep him up any longer. “Wilson? You look like you don’t feel very good. Do you want to go to sleep? I’m not going to need anything.”

“I’m normally pale,” he mumbled.

“You dummy, I know what you normally look like.”

“I suppose you do.” He rubbed at his eyes. “I’ll just make sure my bedroom is suitable for you and then I’ll go lie down, I guess. Wake me up if you need anything?”

“I will!”

He shuffled out of the room. She heard clangy sounds as he moved the rat cages.

The little kitchen sure was quiet without him. She drained the rest of her coffee, then got up and went out into the hall. She found him carrying the last cage as its inhabitant squeaked irritably. “I’m almost done,” he said.

“Do you want any help?”

“No, no.” He brought the cage into the living room. She trailed after him, then followed him back into the bedroom where he looked around the room, hands on hips, then peeked under the bed.

“Aha!” he said, and pulled out a box.

“What’s that?”

“My stash!”

“Uh!”

He opened the box. It was full of Hershey’s bars.

“Oh, your stash!” Yeah, what else would he be hiding under the bed.

“Do you want a kiss?”

“Meeee?” Her little heart went pitter-pat for a moment before she remembered her __friend__  was holding a box of Hershey’s.

He picked out one of the tear-shaped kisses, unwrapped it and popped it in his mouth. Then he offered her one. She took it. It tasted like sweet, sweet disappointment.

“I’ll leave it here in case you get hungry.” He picked up the half-full water glass on the bedside table and set the box of candy down in its place. “Oh, and if you get bored there are magazines in the bottom.”

“Oh?”

“Popular Science Monthly.” He wrinkled up his nose. “The good ones from the ‘teens. Before they decided to be ‘entertaining’ or whatever it is they’re doing now.”

“No pictures?”

“Bah! Not a one.” He picked up the pillow and shook it out. “There’s no hair on it or anything.”

“Thaaat’s good.”

He fluffed the pillow and neatly arranged the blanket. When he did the poor little Bernie fell out onto the floor. “Oh,” Wilson said. “Yes…”

Willow picked the little bear up and dusted him off. “He’s sweet.”

“My father gave me that…. years ago. Many years ago…”

She handed Wilson the teddy. He hesitated, but took him and held him awkwardly.

“Now we’re back. You can see your papa again!” Willow said, since it looked like Wilson missed him, and the few times he’d mentioned his dad he’d always looked like he missed him.

“Errr, he’s dead. I never mentioned that?”

“Um, nope!”

“Dead as a doornail!” Wilson looked sadly at the teddy.

“Aw gee, I’m sorry…” Well that’d be why Wilson looked like he missed him.

“I think he’d’ve liked you, too… but that’s a story for another time. Good night, Willow.” He touched her cheek- then shook himself, pulled his hand away and hurried out of the room.

Then it was just Willow and her friend’s little narrow bed, where he laid his fluffy head at night, and thought about science things. She rocked back onto her heels and then onto her toes. She cracked her knuckles.

Maybe she should’ve asked to sleep on the couch, but that would’ve been weird too. It just felt too much like… part of him was __in__ this house. Like his thoughts and feelings had oozed into the walls and the furniture. Was that weird?

Would a house that Willow lived in long enough start to feel like Willow? Maybe someday she’d get to find out.

He __had__ invited her to sleep in the bed and she __was__ tired. She took off her little shoes and lined them up neatly by the wall. She sat down on the bed. The mattress was busted up and full of broken springs. She would… sleep on top of the covers.

-

The light was shining right into her face. Ack, it was late! She was gonna be late for work! Wait, no- it was Sunday, wasn’t it? She didn’t have to go to work.

She rubbed her eyes and looked around the room. She was still in Wilson’s little bedroom, on top of his bed. Everything was really quiet.

She slipped on her shoes- the floor looked a little tiny bit too dirty and splintery for her stocking feet- and headed out of the room.

Wilson’s teddy bear was sitting on the couch but she didn’t see him anywhere. “Good morning?” she said to the empty room.

Hey, the teddy was holding something. A piece of paper?

__Willow,_ _

__Didn’t want to wake you. Went out to find something to eat before night comes. At the store!_ _

__-W_ _

Oh! Then he’d be back soon, probably. Maybe she’d… she’d just start cleaning up the camp she’d made in his yard…

While she was doing that she may as well make one last fire before she cleaned up all the stuff. Mm, pretty.

The fire was starting to die when she heard the car. She hadn’t been able to see it well in the dark last night- it was a boxy little Model T, black paint job, nothin’ special. It was awful banged up. The collision with the mailbox last night probably hadn’t been its first scuffle.

The car shrieked to a halt and Wilson popped out, humming so loudly she could hear him from all the way over here. He was dressed in a brown flannel suit and a matching felt hat, with a red tie and shiny pointy little shoes, and a peppy little smile. He’d shaved and his face was bright and clean. He looked so normal, especially with most of his hair stuffed under the hat; he coulda been anyone’s hubby or dad, or even like… a __lawyer.__ No one would look at that guy and think of him crouching by a dying campfire, bristly with beard and elbows and temper, a bloody cloth tied over one eye and a crazy glint in the other one, hissing about how to best to stab a giant monster in the heart and whether they oughtta eat its liver. (They’d found out that that the livers were bad for you.)

Pretty crazy stuff!

She stood up and waved to him.

“Ah!” He waved back. “Good morning! My stomach woke me up early and I went out to get breakfast. Say, why don’t you stoke up that fire and we’ll eat out here?… I don’t think all of this will even _ _fit__ in the kitchen…”

He’d gotten a paper package full of bacon, a carton of eggs and a few cans of orange juice, as well as some other stuff that he whisked off into the house without showing her. Willow started cooking things up the way she was used to. On the fire. Good old fire.

He came back shortly and sat down on the ground on the other side of the fire from her. Just like usual. “I ran into that baker.”

“Oh, didja say hi for me?”

“Yeah. He seems quite taken with you. I told him I’m not sure how long you’ll be staying or how long you’ll want to keep working there…”

“What’d you say that for?!”

Wilson jerked back in alarm. “I- er- I thought you’d want to be on your way,” he said, “since you don’t like small towns?” He wrung his hands. “That’s what you’ve said, anyway? Of course you’d be welcome, I just thought you’d be leaving soon? And I also thought you weren’t very fond of sweeping floors and probably you could get a more stimulating job!” This was kinda true but she didn’t wanna risk the job she already __had.__  “I told him it was up to you, anyway, and not to worry because I’m helping you out with things and…” He frowned. “He kept winking at me. You weren’t having any jokes about me with him, perchance…”

“Well I thought,” said Willow, “I might stick around and earn some more money…”

“Oh! Of course!” His face lit up. “You can stay here as long as you want! I just assumed you had things to do, is all! I shouldn’t make assumptions, though! You know, I can put you up in a hotel! We have one in town!”

“Mmh.” She turned over the bacon, although it was still cold and there wasn’t any reason to turn it over yet.

Wilson bit his lip. “I didn’t tell him you were going to quit or anything! I only said I wasn’t sure whether you’d be staying in town or for how long, because he asked after you and at that time I thought you were leaving...”

“It should be fine… you’ll help me get a new job if I get fired, right?”

He swallowed. “If I can! Yes! Of course. Sorry about that…”

“It’s okay.”

“I wanted to ask you, er… where do you plan to go?…”

“I dunnooo…” She’d been thinking about it last night, lying awake in his bed and hearing him snore in the other room because the walls were thin. “Wilson? I don’t really have a family to visit, or nothin’. I got a couple friends, but they’re married with babies now, so I just kinda write to them. They’re real busy.”

“Oh. I see.” He looked sympathetic, but not surprised. She’d never told him she didn’t have a family, but she’d never talked about her family either. He wasn’t stupid, so he’d probably guessed.

“So I’m not in a hurry to go or anything.” She squeezed her hands together by her heart.

“You can stay as long as you want. You can stay here forever if you want! There are… things to do in town… I assume.” He ruffled at his hair. “I don’t actually go there to do anything other than buy food.”

“I thought maybe I’d, um, keep working at the bakery and staying here until I got some money for… stuff?”

“Of course!! Do as you wish…”

“What do __you__  plan on doing?”

“Hmm. Me? Well, I don’t speak with my family so there’s no point in seeing them,” said Wilson. “So, I’m going to write up my research on the island and start trying to get famous. With science. You know.”

“I didn’t know you didn’t talk to your family.” But he’d only really ever said anything about his dad, who she’d just found out last night was dead, so…

“My dad’s dead,” he reiterated. “Don’t ask about my mother. I have this one nice cousin but he’s also… busy because he’s married… with a baby…”

Wilson seemed to be staring past Willow’s ear at nothing.

“Do __you__  ever think about,” said Willow, “getting married?”

“Getting married to who?”

“Somebody!”

“I… hm,” said Wilson. “Between you and me I sometimes think it sounds nice?” He tugged at his ear and looked into her eyes- then scoffed and turned away, folding his arms over his chest. “Bah! I have my work, you know.”

“So? Guys work, and the ladies put up with it.”

Wilson laughed nervously. “Say, if you plan to stick around, you could pick up some extra work as my lab assistant, if you care to. I’d pay you. A little.”

“Or,” said Willow, “I could be your wife!”

Wilson snorted. “Oh! Sure! I’ll drive into town tomorrow and get a license! I’d go now but I think they’re closed on Sunday. You have no family and mine’s mostly evil, so we can just elope right away.”

“Yeah! I mean, I wish Wigfrid could come, but I have noooo idea where she is.” Willow sighed.

“Oh, she’s probably in New York. I think that’s where actresses go, anyway. We could drive there and see if we can find her! We’ll tour the country on our honeymoon looking for people to celebrate with! Maybe we’ll make it up to Canada. I hear Niagara Falls is pretty, if you like that sort of thing, which perhaps you don’t.”

“I don’t really like water but if you wanna go-”

“Oh, I don’t care about waterfalls. It’s just somewhere I’ve heard people visit on honeymoons.”

Willow watched the fire. The bacon was starting to smell bacony. She turned it over.

Wilson cleared his throat and tugged at his collar. “What were we talking about?…” he muttered. “This has gotten a little off track…”

“I don’t think your little house has room for two people in it. And it __definitely__ doesn’t have room for two people and babies, if that’s going to happen.” Sure, Willow had once lived in a very tiny apartment with a buddy, and there’d seemed like plenty of room, but after living for three years out in the wide open with space all around, she was spoiled. And Wilson’s house felt small.

“I’ve thought about moving. I was wretchedly unhappy there.”

“I can tell,” she said quietly.

“Can you? I’ll… tell you about it another time. Also, there was a dimensional rift in the attic, which is probably bad for the… theoretical developing child.” Wilson made a face. “But it’s just going to be me there, so why are we talking about…” He trailed off and cleared his throat, looking up at the sky. “I’m just being weird.”

“I had another weird idea!” Willow blurted. “What if you put your house up for sale and we put your stuff in your car and got married on the way out of town and went looking for our friends? And on the way we could look for a new place to live, and you could find people to talk to about your research?”

Wilson looked silently back at her.

“We could live happily ever after,” said Willow. “And never have to find each other… e-ever again.” She looked away. She’d gone a little bit too far. Just a little.

Wilson opened his mouth, then closed it. His eyes focused onto some imaginary thing off into the distance.

Willow imagined herself traveling back five minutes in time and not saying any of that stuff.

“...Next week,” said Wilson. His face had closed off.

For a moment Willow felt the same as she would if he had physically pushed her away.

“Tell me if you still want to do that next week.” He looked down at his hands. They were trembling slightly. “If you’ve changed your mind, we don’t need to ever speak of this again.”

Wait that wasn’t a no. That was a ‘yes but later’. “Then. If I haven’t changed my mind…?”

He cleared his throat. “I was good company for you when your other options were strongmen, actresses, mimes and lumberjacks, but now… you just might recant, is all. There’s a great big world out there, and you could do anything you set your mind to…”

“But… I love you.”

He was trembling. “And I love you a whole bunch!! A whole heck of a lot! Which is why I don’t want you to be too hasty to shackle yourself to the consumptive madman who is me so let’s talk about this next week!”

“Aw, but…”

“Please??”

She reached through the fire to the other side and took his hand. “Then. We’ll get hitched __next__  week?”

“If. You’re still __sure__ about that.” His mouth was in a determined little line, but his eyes were doey and glistening.

She squeezed his hand. “Ah!” Her heart was going __wham wham wham!__ “Thank you so much! I love you!”

“Hmph! See how excited you are when I’m blowing things up in the attic in pursuit of my mad ideas and there’s a house full of screaming kids…”

“That sounds great! I can’t wait! Will the explosions be red or green?!”

“It- depends on the chemicals involved.” Wilson’s voice broke.

“Are you crying?”

“Bah!” Wilson turned away and scrubbed at his eyes. “I’m too hungry to be reasonable right now, that’s all!”

She’d heard his tummy rumbling a little bit but she was still pretty sure that was an excuse. “Don’t worry, the bacon’s almost done. See, I can cook and everything! I’m gonna be the best wife ever!”

She’d seen how hard he could work and no amount of crying could convince her he wasn’t tough, if that was what he was getting at. She’d tell him so… later. He seemed a little overwhelmed.

“I know you will…” he mumbled.

“And you’ll be the best hubby ever!”

His voice was hoarse. “I’ll… do my very best.”

He wasn’t in a hurry to let go of her hand.

She didn’t want him to let go either.


	46. You Never Take Me Dancing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I named my stardew valley character 'Wilson' and no one would dance with him at the flower festival and my friend thought that was sad so I wrote a 3,000 word fic about no one wanting to dance with him, here you go.
> 
> pre-island

Wilson could already hear the music. Slouched in the seat with his arms crossed over his chest, he eyed the doorway leading into the brightly lit dance hall. The door of doom.

Freddy was whistling a jaunty tune as he got out of the car. He came around to the passenger side of the car, opened the door and walked away with a cheerful “Everybody out!”

Wilson could slam the door shut and just stay in the car but it was awfully cold. And there could be free food in that place, at least.

He took a deep breath, nodded inanely to himself and headed into the building. The interior was all a hot crush of bodies and babble of overlapping talk that nearly drowned out the music. He found a narrow cushion of space around the edges of the crowd and slipped into it.

Pairs of people were swinging each other around, all frothing skirts and dapper young gentlemen. They certainly seemed to be enjoying themselves. Freddy was already nowhere to be seen.

Dodging the dancers, he went on a search for the refreshment table. This took a good ten minutes, it was so crowded, but finally he found it just as he was beginning to fear there wasn’t one. A long table with a white cloth and an unimpressive spread.

There were deviled eggs. He popped one into his mouth, it was room temperature and oddly seasoned.

Perhaps he’d stick to the lemon cakes. He loaded four onto a plate and pressed his back to the nearest wall. The cakes were a touch dry and heavy, but they were free.

A catchy little ragtime number was playing and somewhere between the second and third cake he had to stop his foot from tapping.

Everyone out on the floor was beaming with enjoyment. Freddy would want to stay for hours, it would be a long, cold walk back home if Wilson didn’t wait for a ride, and there was nothing really pressing for him to do back home anyway… it was going to be a long, boring evening regardless of where he was so he may as well stay and gorge himself on stale refreshments.

Nearby a group of three pretty young women were talking to each other. None of them appeared to have partners.

Wilson drifted closer to them. No particular reason. He was only planning to eat the rest of the lemon cakes and go look for anything better to eat that he may have passed up. Nothing more…

None of the ladies looked his way. One of them held a dance card in her hand and was showing it to her friends. He saw a lot of blank spaces on it.

He glanced back out at the floor. They all looked like they were having fun out there.

Now, Wilson didn’t dance ever. And he had always assumed that he would hate it. But biased, dogmatic opinions weren’t good science, and he had no alternative for entertainment. He hadn’t even brought a book or anything.

He cleared his throat.

The women edged away. Ah. That wasn’t a __promising__ sign, but perhaps they thought he was trying to signal that they were in the way! Nothing ventured, nothing gained, right?

“I-” He cleared his throat again, it was suddenly dry. “This is nice music, isn’t it?”

The three women all looked at him and then at each other.

A still, small voice inside said: __They don’t want to dance with me.__ And an illogical corollary: __No one will want to dance with me.__ Hmph. He was smart, decently dressed, and not half bad looking. Nice hair, too. Someone would want to. Someone was probably watching him right now hoping he’d ask, even!

“I’m sorry, sir, my dance card’s full,” one of the women said in a soft voice. The one on the right. Was she the one he’d seen with the empty card? No… probably not… no, she wouldn’t lie, right?

They were all eyeing him and not in a flattering way.

His ears were burning. “Sure! I understand completely! I’ll just be over here, then… in case you want to find me later…”

And back to the food table with him. There was lemonade in a pitcher. He sampled a bit and found it was, unfortunately, just lemonade. Plain, non-enhanced lemonade. He downed a cup of it anyway. Then another. He wasn’t thirsty and it wasn’t particularly fantastic lemonade, but… not much else to do…

When he looked up from the empty glass he saw a familiar face by the wall. A dour face. A face having just as rotten of a time as he was!

He headed for her like she was a life raft. “Miss Warder! Good evening!”

She looked startled. “Mr. Higgsbury. Hello. I did not expect to find you at such an occasion.” It was really her, though! Tall- plain black dress- hazel eyes that saw into one’s soul- nut-brown hair.

“This is the last place I thought I’d see you! I don’t want to be here, you know… I would much rather study than dance. And I don’t really like to study! Not that I’m not a good student. Do you prefer dancing to studying? I won’t hold it against you if you do…”

“Not at all,” she said. “I’m afraid a housemate brought me here.”

“Ah! Yes! My cousin refused to take me home and I don’t have a motorcar-” He realized just then that he was talking too much, and about nothing, and so he stopped talking.

Miss Warder looked down, arranging her gloves. A gesture with the potential to be shy or demure was, on her, quite businesslike. “So I see.”

He bit his lip. He had only ever spoken to her to discuss class material. He had not the faintest idea how to make small talk. “It’s cold, isn’t it?”

“I find it rather close, myself.”

“I meant it’s cold outside, is what I meant…”

“Ah. So it is.” She looked him over. “You have a slight frame. I supposed you’re predisposed to feel the cold.”

“Er… not particularly, but…”

“You ought to take care of yourself. It would be terribly inconvenient if you were to carry germs into the classroom and infect your fellows.”

“I’ll try.” He swallowed. “What have you been doing to keep yourself entertained?”

“I watch,” she said, looking out at the dance floor.

He looked at her wrist. “You haven’t a dance card!”

“I did not take one.”

“Ah! Perhaps you thought no one would fill it?…”

“On the contrary,” she said. “I did not wish to have to fend them off.”

“I see!” He swallowed.

She watched the figures on the dance floor. She was always so methodical, that woman. No doubt it was how she’d ended up in the medical program despite being female. She seemed to be at the top of the class, too. Certainly she was doing better than Wilson. Yes… quite a mind…

“I know a waltz,” he said, while inwardly urging himself to please shut up already- “I learnt in school! You know, as a kid. In England… it’s an English waltz… my father is English.”

“Ah. I see. Perhaps you’d go and show it to one of the women here,” she said. “I’m certain there’s someone who needs a partner.”

Oh.

“Yes!” he said quickly. “I’m sure there must be…”

She leaned forward and peered into his face. “I’ve upset you.”

He twiddled his thumbs and averted his gaze. “Me?…”  
”Ah. You were asking me to dance.”

“Me?… You?…”

“I did not mean to upset you, Mr. Higgsbury,” she said, “I have no interest in waltzing with anyone. I do not find you objectionable but I shan’t be dancing with you. I believe your time would be better spent elsewhere. Good evening.”

At least she was being nice about it. “Good evening…”

He went to find a corner to sit in and wait for the night to be over.

He found one and made himself comfortable. He might not stay comfortable for long, he’d chugged two glasses of lemonade and didn’t know where the W.C. was around here. Miss Warder probably knew, he could ask her as a very last resort.

Amid the sea of twirling people, it came to his attention that there was a timid pale little face lurking in the opposite corner of the room.

Wilson started nibbling on a hangnail. She looked as if she might be waiting for someone to ask her to dance.

Too bad Wilson didn’t even want to dance and hadn’t ever wanted to dance! He hadn’t planned to be here at all. His time would be best spent just sitting here and not even bothering with any of this nonsense, and next time Fred took him anywhere he would put his foot down, and…

…He sidled up to her. “Good evening!”

She turned large, frightened eyes to him. She had a little pointed chin and nose, a rosebud mouth, jet black hair… wide almond-shaped eyes of a striking green. Wilson’s shoes were scuffed and he’d missed most of the under-chin area when he’d shaved that morning.

He stood stock still for a moment as his brain did __absolutely nothing__ and then what came out of his mouth was “You’re foxy, wanna trot with me?”

The girl just looked away. He backed away. “Sorry! I’ll go now!”

And with that, he would go outside and wait in the darn motorcar in thirty-degree weather! That was clearly the best course of action!

While navigating the musical obstacle course that was the dance floor he spotted Fred, spinning about with a girl who looked like Mary Pickford. They were both laughing giddily.

Empty-headed fools...

-

“So! How was it?”

Wilson looked up over the small cloud made by his breath. “It wasn’t my style, Freddy. I’d really rather you brought me home instead of making me go to these places. I didn’t have a good time.”

Fred rolled his eyes. “Of course not, I’ll wager you didn’t speak a word to anyone the entire evening.”

Wilson said nothing.

“You’ll die alone,” Fred said, “a miserable little miser with a microscope.” He began to crank up the automobile.

Wilson looked outside at the stars. “I don’t use a microscope all that often,” he mumbled. “I’m more of a chemist.”

“The alone part was the relevant part, my good chum.”

“Yes, yes… I get it.” He closed his eyes.

-

“Do you wanna dance?”

Wilson looked up, blinking. The voice had come from quite close by but surely it wasn’t directed to him? He had not expected anyone to come over here, away from the festivities under the shade of what could charitably be called birch trees.

But in that case, there was no one else here to ask to dance, either…

Willow had been whirling to the sound of that instrumental whatchamacallit that Wes and Wigfrid were taking turns playing. Now she was over here with bright eyes and rosy cheeks.

Wilson looked behind him in case there was someone else there, though he was pretty sure there wasn’t.

“Well, do you?” she prompted. “You wanna do something besides sit around over here all alone while we have fun without ya, right?”

Wilson continued to blink stupidly at her. “Me? I’m, er… not exactly the life of the party.”

“That’s okay! I’m fun enough for the both of us!” She grabbed his arm, hauling him to his feet.

His feet let her lead him to the dance floor while his mouth said “I’m not much of a dancer! You’re probably going to have a few regrets…”

“Aw, it’s not hard, Mr. Higgsbury!” That was Webber, dancing with Wendy on the corner of the patchwork surface Wickerbottom had spread out for a dance floor.

“Fun,” said Wendy, with no expression. Abigail twirled like a top by her side.

The patchworky stuff was kind of lumpy, but it looked like it was holding up well. Wilson had helped put it together, dyeing squares with berry juice and sewing some of them together. Just because he hated parties didn’t mean he didn’t want the others to have fun. Not that he could have said no to Wickerbottom if he’d wanted to…

Willow started moving around. Wilson stood like a lump. Wickerbottom was dancing a waltz with, of all people, Wolfgang, and they were both remarkably, unexpectedly graceful- if completely out of time to the music. Woodie was sitting by the edge of the floor, clapping in time with the song that Wes was playing at a furious pace. Wigfrid was doing some kind of war dance next to him.

WX-78 and Maxwell were standing nearby, awkwardly eyeing one another. Upon seeing them Wilson had two thoughts almost simultaneously: first, he hadn’t been the only wallflower, and second, he had been putting himself in the same category as the self-proclaimed evildoers. And a third: both of those two were about to watch him try to dance.

Maybe he should refuse. On one hand, clearly no one was going to care if he danced badly apart from possibly the two whose opinions he cared about least in the world. But on the other hand Willow was surely just asking him to be nice. Maybe she was even hoping he’d refuse.

“Aw, geez. C’mon.” Willow took Wilson’s right hand in her own- firm, dry, rough with callus at the fingertips and the heel of the thumb- and guided it to the small of her back- a warm hollow. His left hand reached for her right hand as long-ago unwanted dance lessons came seeping back into his memory.

The music was a little too fast for him, but Wickerbottom and Wolfgang didn’t seem to care about keeping in time (and neither did the whirling dervish that was Wendy’s spectral sibling), so he would just go at his own pace, maybe, and hope Willow didn’t mind him slowing her down, and he’d better not step on her feet- she was so close. His hand was sweating onto hers. He could smell spice on her breath, she’d been eating monster meat chili.

Ah- she wasn’t moving her feet?

“Wilson!” She pulled back and looked at him in alarm. Had he kicked her shin without noticing? Were his hands gross? Did he smell bad?

“Do you-” he said. “Are you done already?”

“You do too know how to dance! And I don’t. I kinda just thought we’d stand here and like, rock back and forth a little.”

“Oh. We can do that!” Phew! He couldn’t step on her feet if he didn’t move his at all.

They rocked back and forth a little. Someone was playing music somewhere. It wasn’t important.

“You’re shaking,” Willow said. “Am I scary?”

“Oh, you’re terrifying… a flaming bolt of destruction…” He almost said __aimed at my heart__ but managed to think better of it in time.

“Hehe! I’m gonna get you!” She batted at his face. He flinched. “Aw, don’t be so nervous, it’s just for fun. Look, no one else knows how to dance!” She pointed at Wolfgang, who had broken away from Wickerbottom and was squatting low to the ground, torso upright and arms crossed over his chest, and kicking his legs out in front of him. “Haha, what’s he even doin’?”

“Wolfgang did this dance with bear in old country!” Wolfgang said.

“I’m sure the bear was impressed!” Wilson said.

“Bear was very impressed!”

“I see!” Wolfgang was getting out of breath, so Wilson would stop pestering him. He looked back at Willow. “I’m just not accustomed to this sort of thing, you know.”

“Oh, okay. Here, I’ll help,” she said, and drew him closer- their chests were nearly touching. “Ya need practice,” she said in his ear.

His heart beat in his throat. They swayed to the music. Her hair smelled of burnt pine. She was humming softly, not along with the music but a completely different tune that she must prefer.

He had the strangest desire to turn and nuzzle her cheek. Here she was being so nice to him and his instinctive reaction was to take liberties? Yeesh. He was a cad.

And yet.

She was touching his face. “You’re having fun now, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I-” He felt somehow feverish but not ill. “Yes, er-”

A voice cut in. “YOU ARE BAD AT DANCING.”  
WX-78 was tapping their foot and looking as uncomfy as a robot could look. Beside them, Maxwell was picking gunk out from underneath his fingernails with a sharpened stick and glowering.

Wigfrid ran up to Wes and beckoned for the one-man band. He handed it over and she started shrieking opera and playing the music at full volume. Wendy did languid ballet moves while Abigail revolved around Webber in circles. Wickerbottom had begun to mimic Wolfgang’s squatting bear dance. Woodie was trying to waltz with his axe.

Wilson squeezed Willow’s hand. “This is the most fun I’ve ever had in my life.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I usually tag for ships but I didn't want to spoil the Twist Sappy Ending and I don't think anyone comes into these not braced for willowson anymore.
> 
> (Wickerbottom and Wolfgang are waltzing platonically. They just like to dance.)


	47. Efficiency

“Winona, dear. Come here for a moment.”

The old librarian was sitting with her back to the wall, looking cool as a cucumber. Book spread out in her lap. Always with the books, that one. Winona didn’t see much use for those things but to each their own.

She put her hands in her pockets and strolled over.

Wickerbottom closed the book and folded her little old lady hands on top of it. “I hear that you dismantled and rebuilt one of our research engines.”

“Yeah! She’s runnin’ about 20% more efficient now. I dunno who built ‘er to begin with, but it was a pretty sloppy job!”

“Ah, yes… the next time you dismantle a structure, please do check with us first, dear.”

Had Winona misheard? Too many machines in her ears for too long maybe. “Check with ya first?”

“Yes, please.”

“Yeesh, grams, seems like a waste o’ time to me. Why wouldn’t everyone want a new and better one?”

Wickerbottom adjusted her glasses. “Some of the members of our camp are somewhat attached to the things they’ve built with their own two hands, dear. I know it may be hard for you to understand this, as you’ve made so many things, but many here were never terribly, ah… productive in their old lives. This is new for them, and they cherish their creations.”

This sure was hard for Winona to understand. She looked around at the camp- it was a rickety little shambles of stuff jammed together by people who had no clue what they were doing. People who’d had to claw the stuff outta the ground and jury-rig it with spit and hope. Winona had just kind of assumed they hated their camp and were putting a brave face on it. She was helping if she made it not stink so much, wasn’t she?

“Aw, come on, no one wants that old wreck of an engine back, do they?”

“Ahem. In fact, it was someone’s pride and joy, but you meant well. No one is angry with you. I would merely advise that you ask about the feelings of the others before you dismantle anything. Do you see?”

Winona really didn’t see. They couldn’t care that much about something so darn silly! She was about to say so when she heard- “Miss Wicker! Miss Wicker!”

It was Webber, bouncing across the floor (it was rough-hewn and sloppy, and Winona really oughtta work on that- straighten out those crooked lines, take out the extra nails)- a little sheet of papyrus in one of his little pawsies. “I drew you a picture, Miss Wicker! Oh, hello, Miss Nona.”  
”Hey, kid! What’s up?”

“We drew some spiders for Miss Wicker!” He turned to the old lady, who was smiling gently at him. “We know you can’t get in there to study their nests because they get mad at you, so we drew them for you!”

“Thank you, dear!” Wickerbottom took the piece of scribbly paper as if it was Babe Ruth’s autograph. “How kind of you.”

“We’re not super good at drawing but we hope you like it!”

“I love it, dear!”

Winona peeked at the page. It was typical little-kid drawing. Pretty bad. “Hey, ya did good, slugger.” She ruffled his fur. He giggled. Cute kid for a monster.

“Okay, we gotta go do some stuff, we hope that drawing helps, Miss Wicker.”  
”It’s quite helpful,” she said.

Webber scampered off. Winona also had a lot of work on her plate so she turned to go too- but Wickerbottom was peering at her.

“Yeah, grams?”

“This drawing is not technically skilled. You praised it because it wasn’t of importance that it be a work of skill, and you wanted Webber to be happy, didn’t you?”

“Well, yeah, but we don’t need drawings to be nice to survive around here, ya know. The ice boxes need to be in peak condition!”

“You may have a point, dear, but please… if you’re going to dismantle someone’s work… do be sure it’s important. And please…” Wickerbottom touched Winona’s shoulder. “Do be gentle.”

“All right, I guess if ya say so, boss.” Winona still didn’t get it, but it seemed important to Wickerbottom for some reason and she was a nice ol’ lady.

Sometimes rebuilding something was just good sense, though.


	48. Let Me Help You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so how 'bout that forge event

“Do you ever think about… mortality?”

His voice was nearly drowned out by the hammering rain outside. The shadows cast by the torch flickered and danced on the wall; one could imagine they looked like tortured souls writhing in hell if one were- very tired. Perhaps a little delirious. Yes, and now he was waiting for the man he was addressing to reply aloud when he knew he was talking to Wes.

He looked over. Wes sat with his elbows propped on his knees, leaning forward with his head at an attentive angle.

Wilson turned back to the wall. The shadows really did look __writhe-y.__ “I just meant that you and I are mortal. Do you ever wish you were… less mortal?”

His skin was chilled from the downpour, and he wished the torch gave off more heat. Or that he could run it over his body to dry off, like some people could.

Wes eyed him quizzically and made a beckoning motion. Wilson had been a bit vague, really. He attempted to explain.

“You’re the only other one here who can’t perform incredible supernatural feats like call lightning or wrestle a bear. Does it ever trouble you, Wes?”

Wes gave his head a little shake.

“That’s good! It shouldn’t. We’re just doing our best, you know. I am a scientist, not a labourer. And you’re an entertainer, not a miner! We shouldn’t even be here.” He sighed.

Wes got to his feet and started capering about as best as he could in the small space, flexing imaginary muscles and looking determined. Wilson nodded in agreement, though he wasn’t sure what he was agreeing with. He looked out at the sheets of rain blocking the view out of the mouth of the cave.

When he looked back, Wes was very close by. Wilson instinctively pulled back by a degree or two.

Wes pointed at him with a lift of the eyebrows. “Er?” Wes pulled a sad, doe-eyed face and pointed again.

“Does it bother __me?”__

Wes nodded.

“Um…”

He didn’t need to go on and on- about how the others (Wes included!) had been looking after him for so long now, feeding him, seeing that he was appropriately clothed for the elements, tenderly caring for him when he was sick or hurt- and even providing treats and entertainment when he was well and bored. What’d he done for them in return? Not a whole lot! Certainly not single-handedly produced enough crops in one day to feed the entire camp, or harvested an entire forest in an hour. He felt like a child among gods.

It was one thing to be unhelpful, but quite another to be unhelpful to people one relied on for everything…

“It doesn’t bother me at all!” he declared.

Wes patted his hand and smiled.

Wilson nodded and tried to look determined and ‘up’. There was no need to also make Wes comfort him emotionally on top of everything else. He’d find a way to pay what he owed. Someday.

Eventually.

Probably.

\--

Wes was down. He had been running around the other end of the arena a second ago, looking frightened but ecstatic, and now he was facedown on the floor.

Wes was cold to the touch and covered in blood. When turned over onto his back, his eloquent dark eyes stared vacantly at nothing, their light gone out. This was not how death worked in the other forest. This was like real death. The permanent death from the other world. Oh, Wes-

Something was hovering over Wes. Wilson could feel it there but not see it. He could see Wickerbottom, across from him, holding Wes’ slender forearm and looking for a pulse she wouldn’t find. Her head rose and she seemed to also be looking for the invisible thing in the air.

She took hold of it and began to carefully thread it into the departed friend. It was Wes’ soul. Of course, a simple operation, the soul was out, put it back- so simple! How obvious! What a reasonable way to- she was too slow.

Wilson snatched the soul out of her hands and jammed it back in. This was no time to be __dainty.__

The soul diffused through its owner’s body for three long heartbeats, and then the world resumed as Wes drew a deep breath, shock animating those eyes and wiping away the frost of death. Phew. There. Not a problem. Everything was perfectly alright.

“Good as new,” said Wilson, taking his shoulders, propping him up to a sitting position and patting him on the back. Wes scrambled to his feet, bounced up and down a bit, and dashed off.

Wickerbottom was looking into his eyes in a way that made Wilson pause for a second even though he ought to be getting back over there with his darts __right away.__ Perhaps she thought Wilson had been too ungentle. Had he been? No, he hadn’t been! Maybe he had been. They didn’t teach one how to handle souls properly in medical school.

“I think,” she said, “you ought to take this, dear.”

Wes had snatched up some kind of staff with a flower on the end when it had appeared after the last ugly pig breathed its last, and Wilson saw now that this staff had been left on the floor after Wes’- recovery. He didn’t want it anymore, apparently.

Wilson picked it up. Some kind of humming in the wood eased his hammering pulse and made it feel easier to breathe. “Oh! It conducts regenerative-”

“Yes. Please, for the time being, use it.”

Actually, this thing seemed pretty important and perhaps Wickerbottom should be the one to use this- but before he could say so something else caught his eye. Wolfgang collapsing on the other side of the arena in a pile of grubby animals.

There was no room to get to him, but he could sense that the staff’s power would reach in there. Wilson called to it to do- whatever this did, and a lot of flowers sprung up from the floor. Flowers? That didn’t look too terribly helpful.

The monsters all fell unconscious almost at once. Ah. Okay, that was handy. That left WX-78 standing there at a loss staring at their suddenly-sleeping targets, and let Wilson in to Wolfgang’s side, where he found another soul and stuffed that back in. Wolfgang sat up, restored to life when seconds ago he’s been dead as a doornail, and looked at Wilson in surprise. “Thank you, friend!”

Wilson’s mouth was dry.

“Happy to help!” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am aware that wilson is only one of a few different viable character choices for healer in forge. please do not debate forge strategy in the comments on this chapter. thank you!


End file.
